The Last, The Lost, The Least - (Sequel to Strangers Like Me)
by Hobbsy3
Summary: THIS IS NO LONGER THE ACTIVE SEQUEL: Feel free to read but see Dark Side of the Moon for the up to date story. A peaceful night in the Shire is thrown awry by a frantic wizard and a rider in black. Kili Baggins and his family make for Rivendell, and a fellowship is formed to deal with the nightmare that lives in Bilbo's pocket.
1. Chapter 1: The Return

**Hello and welcome to** ** _The Last, The Lost, The Least!_** **For those of you that have read** ** _Strangers Like Me_** **– here is the sequel! For those who haven't, I hope this story will stand alone enough for you, and welcome to my writing :D**

 **As ever, please do forgive any typos that I've made.**

 **I really hope you enjoy :D**

 **Chapter One # The Return #**

It was a miserable excuse for a Summer. Not a day of sun was seen in the whole Shire for weeks, and the drizzle was constant and dull. Even the most excitable little hobbits grew tired of splashing in puddles, and it was often too wet for proper play. The farmers' crops were drowning in saturated soil, and already folk were talking about the horror of a potential 'low harvest'.

But the little village of Hobbiton, nestled in the West Farthing, was abuzz with excitement. The rain could not dampen the eager whispers, and the cloud could not hide the shining eyes of the hobbits that lived there. The whole generation of hobbits whose children were in now in their tweens were, for once, more wild than their offspring. They would run from house to house in pouring rain without so much as a hood, and they would stay out all hours of the night and come home trailing mud and twigs and fireflies into the carpet. Of course, their children were just as animated. They practically bounced off the walls of their homes and snuck away from distracted parents to search the horizon for hours beneath a dribbling sky.

By August, the excitement of Hobbiton leaked into the surrounding villages and other farthings, in particular the lands of Tuckborough and Buckland, and by the final days of the month it was unbearable.

Any day now, any day, Kíli Baggins and the hobbits of Erebor would be coming home. It was but three years since their last visit, so their return was a treat in itself, but more importantly it was the year of Frodo Baggins' 33rd birthday, and his coming of age. In a series of letters to Gaffer Gamgee, Bilbo had promised that they would be returning (in a group of thirty-three by some rumours, and three hundred by others) by Summer's end to throw the young hobbit a birthday party 'for the ages' in his home village.

The Bagginses had not thrown a party in the Shire for twenty odd years, not since before Masters Bilbo and Kíli left on their adventure with the latter's biological family, but people remembered the effort that the pair used to put into a good celebration. There was even talk of the wizard, Gandalf, making an appearance and letting off some world famous fireworks, but the Gaffer could promise nothing of the sort, and as the receiver of most letters from the Lonely Mountain he was often deemed the Shire's most reliable source.

"If the wizard's coming," he would say, "Mister Bilbo's said nothing of it to me, and neither has my Sam. I expect there'll be a fair number of dwarves, though. My Sam says there's a lot of them wanting to celebrate with Mister Frodo."

The younger hobbits were most excited about the presents. The last few times that the group had returned, they had brought with them magical toys from New Dale and Erebor, and any child with an invitation to the party could rightfully hope to get one.

On the last day of August it was foggy and poured with rain until midday, and the atmosphere cracked with anticipation and fear. It was a big, scary, wild world beyond their borders – they knew that all too well – so what if some horrible fate had befallen the group? What if they just were not going to come? They had promised to be back by Summer's end, and what was August the 30th if not the end of the Summer?

And then, as the afternoon hit its height and the rain slowly stopped, they were spotted – a large crowd riding towards Hobbiton on ponies and wolves at an impressive speed that was most likely the final sprint in a long, arduous journey. Folk ran out of their houses and down to the edge of the village, and the Gamgees were all but falling over each other to push to the front of the queue.

As the travellers grew nearer, it became clear that there were thirty-three of them, one for each year of Frodo's life. The first to ride into the village astride large wolves were Kíli and Meriadoc Brandybuck – who looked very grown up as a tween of thirty-one. When Merry was riding he would not sit upright as the others did, but lie on his stomach with his arms loosely wrapped around Denahi's neck. A specially made saddle shifted his weight to back and to the right, to accommodate for the wolf's missing limb.

No one would have believed that a three-legged wolf could comfortably carry a full grown hobbit, but this wolf could.

And they still beat the rest of their company into the heart of Hobbiton.

"Hullo, everyone!" Merry called, to a chorus of greetings. He began to unfasten himself as Kíli jumped off of Luno's back and slipped the wolf a slither of jerky. "I told you we'd beat you, Kíli."

"Aye, and I'm mighty impressed that you did!" Kíli grinned, trying to hug back the mob of hobbits – adults and children alike – that seemed intent on hugging the life out of him. "Hello, everyone. Why, Minto, you've gotten so big! You look just like your father, don't you?"

"That's what everyone says," the white-blonde twenty-year-old grinned.

Sam rode up next, his little pony's legs going a mile a minute, it seemed. Within the space of a second he had jumped off of the horse and into the arms of his father. Frodo Baggins was just behind them, with a tiny dwarfling girl in front of him on his pony.

Three of the four young Tooks were next in hugging distance – Pippin, Pearl and Pervinca, all now in their tweens. A trio of young dwarves rode in with them, though none were known to the hobbits. A few meters behind them rode Pimpernel 'Nelly' Took next to a dwarf who appeared to be of similar age. Their heads were bent together and there were grins on their faces that made several bakers in the crowd decide to move their goods away from the windowsills when they got home. Then came Paladin and Eglantine Took and Esmeralda and Saradoc Brandybuck, with Bilbo Baggins, his dwarven wife Dís, and their son and Kíli's brother, Fíli.

Their situation had become incredibly confusticated, and the genealogy scholars in the Shire had been quite irritated while they tried to put it into their carefully formatted family trees.

Fíli and Kíli, of course, were of no blood relation to Bilbo. The hobbit had raised Kíli when he had appeared in the Shire as an amnesiac dwarfling, and they had only met Fíli and the rest of Kíli's birth family by coincidence. That coincidence had led to a very unhobbitish quest and their introduction to Dís, Kíli's true mother. As it transpired, his biological father was long dead, and his mother later fell in love with and married his adopted father, Bilbo.

To make things more complicated, Bilbo had legally adopted his cousin Frodo, which caused several heated debates among the scholars as to where Frodo Baggins should be placed. Some wrote his name twice – once beneath his parents and once beneath Bilbo, with a careful symbol by his name, along with a footnote at the bottom. Others wrote his name only beneath his parents, and others only with Bilbo.

The whole situation was a nightmare compared to the simplicity that hobbits adored, but they put up with it because their Bagginses were their Bagginses. After all they had gone through together, good, bad and horrific, they were willing to allow them some oddities. Especially when those oddities benefited the Shire, too.

A loud cheer sprang up among the children when a familiar dwarf in a very familiar hat pulled up.

"Mister Bofur, Mister Bofur!" they cried. "Mister Bofur, what have you got in your pockets?"

The toymaker chuckled. "Cupboard love, that's all hobbits are good for."

"Mister Bofur, Mister Bofur!"

Bofur threw his head back and laughed, pulling out a little bag and retrieving an odd looking instrument. He blew it, sending out a stream of bubbles. The children squealed in delight, reaching up with open palms. They did not even flinch at the large group of strange dwarves that were pulling up just behind Bofur.

Of the rest of the group, only four were known to the hobbits. One was Nori, the hero of the battle of the Shire and usual companion of the Bagginses. The others were all younger dwarves, of roughly the same age as Kíli and his brother. Bragi, Soren, and Ehren were officially bodyguards to the royal family, but in the Shire and to the royals in question they were seen only as dear friends.

"Alright, alright!" the Gaffer called loudly, his arm wrapped tightly around his youngest son's shoulders. "These good folk have travelled far in this miserable weather and now they need to get inside a nice warm house. There'll be plenty of time to catch up soon enough."

With that, the bedraggled parade made its way up to Bag End. The Tooks and Brandybucks peeled away before the end of the road – they would be staying with Adalgrim and Daisy Took, Paladin and Esmeralda's parents – and Sam left the group to bring his belongings into his family home.

What that left, however, was twenty-one soaking dwarves, two dripping hobbits and six wet wolves squished into the foyer of Bag End.

"Move forward!" Bilbo called out from somewhere between Dwalin's underarm and Bifur's hair. "Keep walking, try and stay off the carpets! Into the kitchen now, single file, that's it. Right, have we lost anyone."

"Me!" giggled Eyja, Dwalin's young daughter.

There was a pause, a muffled squeak, and then a triumphant cry from Gimli. "Got her!"

"Right," Bilbo took a deep breath. "First things first… Bedrooms… Now Kíli, my boy, do you have the list?"

"Yes I do, my dear hobbit, in my head." Kíli cleared his throat. "Right! Amad and Bilbo are in the master bedroom, Frodo will be kipping on the floor in there. I'll be in _my_ bedroom with Fíli, Bragi, Ehren and Soren, then in Frodo's room we have Dwalin, Elza, Eyja, and Frerin. Frodo'll show you where it is. Then, Guest Room One is for Bombur's brood-"

A cheer went up among dwarves of varying ages, with varying shades of red hair.

"Shut up, the lot of you!" Bofur thwacked his nearest nephew on the head with a grin. "I told your parents I'd keep you on your best behaviour, that doesn't mean interrupting your host at the first sound of your father's name!"

Bofin rubbed the back of his head. "Uncle, I'm seventy-two years old!"

Bofur thwacked him again for good measure. "Then act it."

"Ach-he-hem!" Kíli waited for the room to go quiet, then grinned. "As I was saying, Bofin, Bróin, Orla, Ola and Bodin will be sharing that room. That leaves Bofur, Nori, Bifur, Ori and Uncle Thorin in the last room, and then Gimli, you can go where you like."

"You didn't forget me again?" Gimli raised his eyebrows.

Kíli rolled his eyes. "Of course not. But you weren't coming until the last minute and Bilbo and I made The List before we then. I just thought I'd let you choose between bunking in with us, the adults or Dwalin. Or you could sleep at the bottom of Bilbo's bed with Frodo."

Gimli rolled his eyes. "How about the armchair?"

"Oh poppycock," Bilbo scolded the eighty-four-year-old as if he were a dwarfling. "As long as you're under my roof you will sleep in a bed. Or at least on a bedroll with a decent pile of blankets in a bedroom." Then the hobbit paused. "Or, if you wished you could sleep in the library. There's more than enough room for a bedroll on the floor."

Gimli grinned. "I'd like that, thank you Bilbo."

"Hey!" young Bodin frowned. "How come Gimli gets his own room?"

"Because Bilbo said so, now shush up with your whining," Bofur said lightly, though he did give the boy a quick hug and a big grin.

"Right, if everyone could proceed to their appropriate bedrooms and leave their belongings in a tidy pile. Then get changed and reconvene in the dining room for some afternoon tea."

"I told you," Dwalin chuckled to his wife. "We'll make a military commander out of the halfling yet."

"Hobbit, Dwalin, the polite term is hobbit," Bilbo sang. "You'd do well to remember that when surrounded by a great many of them. Mahal knows I've reminded you often enough. Now, bedrooms!"

There was almost a disaster when Bombur's eldest son – the most alike his father in stature – tripped over his sister. They knocked into Thorin, who in turn almost fell on little Frerin, the smallest and youngest of their company. Luckily the King managed to steady himself before he crushed Dwalin and Elza's son, and he pulled the boy up off of the floor, plonked him into his mother's arms and began to help Bilbo in directing everyone to the appropriate rooms.

When the entire group was settled, Bilbo lit a fire in the living room and patted the nearest wolf on the head. "Alright, you lot, come in here and get warm. And stay _off_ my armchairs, Sokka."

The young wolf whined innocently and ducked his head down.

"Yes, yes, I know. I'm a cruel hobbit, it's very, very sad. Stay off the furniture, you're shedding like mad at the moment, though I don't know why. The weather's been awful."

Sokka whined again and shook all over Bilbo's good rug. The hobbit sighed sadly and went to put the kettle on. As he bent over the fire, a wet nose snuffled at the back of his neck, and he turned to see Luno staring at him with a slowly wagging tale.

"Bofur's keeping his nieces and nephews under control – if you could kindly do the same," the hobbit teased, stroking the wolf's ears. "If Lani was here she would've nipped that pup five times today, I think."

Luno huffed that odd, laugh like sound that the wolves would so often make and licked Bilbo's ear, before stretching out in front of the fire.

"Thank you," the hobbit muttered, wiping the slobber off of his ear. He rolled his shoulders and then his aching neck. At seventy-two he was hardly considered old, and indeed he neither felt nor looked any different than he had at fifty, but travelling in the rain always made him achy.

"Do you need a hand?"

Bilbo smiled, not needing to turn around to recognise his son's voice. "The Gaffer should've filled up the pantry – see if you can find some biscuits."

"I'm on it!" Kíli ruffled the hobbit's hair – an annoying habit that Bilbo could frankly do without – and bounded into the pantry.

Smiling, Bilbo watched as his hundred-year-old son began to search the shelves. So much had changed in the past two decades, and yet so much was the same. He had been concerned that their positions as princes would dampen Kíli and Fíli's spirits, but they still behaved like overgrown children whenever they could.

Kíli gasped. "Bilbo! Carrot cake!"

"Carrot cake? Oh, bless Hamfast Gamgee. I doubt there'll be enough for everyone, though-"

"No, but there's a box of gingerbread men and huge jar of cookies, so we don't have to worry about Dwalin and the little ones." Kíli emerged with his arms laden with goodies. "It was a good call, eating lunch at the Green Dragon."

"Aye, well I knew that I wouldn't fancy cooking the moment I walked in the door, yet people are bound to be hungry."

"Bróin's already offered to make dinner tonight," remembered Kíli. "He's going to rival his father in cooking and eating one day, even if he never seems to gain any weight. Oh, the kettle's boiled – you go and get changed, I'll make the tea."

"Thank you, my boy," Bilbo smiled, and Kíli wrapped him in a massive hug.

"It's good to be home," the dwarf whispered, before releasing the hobbit. "Ew. You're soaking. Go and get changed."

"I was on my way when you accosted me!" protested the hobbit.

"Shoo, you're blocking my path to the teapot."

"Ingrate."

"Bully."

Shaking his head, Bilbo smiled and hurried off. Bustling into his bedroom, he saw Frodo enveloped in Dís' arms, his face buried in the dwarf's shoulder. Bilbo paused.

"Is… everything alright?"

Frodo turned around and smiled. "Hello, Uncle. Everything's fine, it's all fine. Sometimes you just need a hug."

"Yes, I quite agree," Bilbo smiled back, studying his nephew's eyes.

"Is the kettle on?" Frodo asked.

"Yes, Kíli's starting the brew."

Frodo nodded. "I'll go and help him, then."

"Thank you, lad." Bilbo watched his nephew leave and turned to his wife. "What was that about?"

"I'm not entirely sure," she said, her eyes drifting away in Frodo's direction. "When I came back from the bathroom there was a strange look on his face, but he did not look upset as such… I couldn't put my finger on it. Before I could say anything he asked for a cuddle. Said that he was fine, simply tired."

"Well, that could very well be it," Bilbo peeled his shirt off. "Goodness knows we are all tired."

"I hope so," she sighed, opening the cupboard and throwing Bilbo one of the old shirts that he always kept in the Shire. "Not to worry, I'll set Kíli on his case."

"That is an excellent idea, and just what I was about to suggest," Bilbo said.

Dís threw more clothes at his face. "Hurry up and put your trousers on, Bilbo Baggins, I'd very much like a cup of tea."

"Well, Dís Baggins, I'm not stopping you from going to get it."

Bilbo could not help but smile at the way that Dís' eyes crinkled up as she grinned.

"Very well, I will see you in a moment," she said, crossing the room to kiss him for a lingering moment, before pulling away and slipping out of the door. Bilbo watched her leave for a moment, marvelling at how the few grey strands in her hair shone like silver. He still found it hard to believe, sometimes, that he was married to such an incredible woman.

He still found it hard to believe many things about his life, if he was honest with himself.

Still smiling, he grabbed a pair of nearby braces and headed back towards the kitchen. Fíli, Soren, Bragi and Ehren were all around the table in the kitchen, as were Nori and Ori. Already it was a little crowded, and Bilbo took a deep breath.

"Alright boys, into the dining room. You easily fit twelve around my table before, so all six of you can squash onto one side."

"Having fun, Bilbo?" drawled Nori.

"Lots of fun," the hobbit replied with a smirk. "Sit."

As the room slowly filled and Frodo began handing out tea-cups, Bilbo organised as best he could with a smile in his heart. For all the noise and chaos, he truly loved this odd family they had formed. Of course, half of it was still in Erebor – not all the high lords could leave at once, especially when the king was gone.

And speaking of the king…

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, thank you Thorin. Just sit down and make yourself comfortable."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. How is the room? I know there aren't quite enough beds…"

"There are no wonky tree roots and no unfriendly eyes, so I think it will be fine. Not quite my quarters in Erebor, but pleasant enough." Thorin gave a wry smile.

"I'm glad you came, you know," Bilbo said quietly. "It means a lot to Frodo. He didn't think that you could."

"I did not think I'd be able to, for a time," Thorin admitted. "But Erebor is stable, and Two is more than capable of handling things."

"Yes, he does live up to his namesake," Bilbo nodded, thinking of Dain's son fondly. Thorin Stonehelm was never called by his first name – and within his family he was rarely called Stonehelm either. Instead, he was known as 'Two', since he was second dwarf in their immediate family to be called Thorin.

"You think so?" Thorin raised his eyebrow.

"Oh yes. Fíli was giving me a history lesson – the first king Thorin of Durin's folk seemed to be quite a character."

Thorin rolled his eyes. "Well, in any case, I'm sure my kingdom will be intact by the time I get back."

"Balin's there to help him, anyway. I still don't see why you couldn't have left him in charge."

"As I have said many times-"

"I know, I know, Two isn't a lord in his own right yet, so he is traditionally allowed to sit in your seat and rule in your stead. Yes, I remember. But really, if there's anyone less likely to start a coup against you it would be Balin!"

"I know that," Thorin intoned. "As do most in the mountain, if not all! But law and tradition dictate that in the absence of the king, the throne must be occupied by one without lordship until his majesty returns."

"And Lord Arnor ruled the Blue Mountains in your stead because that was just a fancy chair, not a throne?"

Thorin stared at Bilbo. "When first I came to this house you did not dare to speak to me in such a manner."

"Well yes, you were a stranger and a guest. Then I got to know you and married your sister."

Thorin sighed. "The situation during the quest was different. I was king of our people, but not of Ered Luin. They were my halls, but not my mountains. There I was officially but a Lord, and in any case I did not intend to return."

"In any case, I am glad that you're here," Bilbo said again. "Right, take a seat, make yourself comfortable. Tea?"

"Please."

Finally, finally, Bilbo was able to sit down on an antique chair that had been shoved into the corner of the kitchen with a mug of tea in his hand. His other hand drifted down to his pocket and ran over the cool gold ring inside it.

He knew that it could only be his imagination, but the ring had seemed to grow heavier over the past few months. While he rarely had need to use it, the temptation to just disappear was growing too, but the last thing that Gandalf had told him had stayed his hand for the last six years.

Keep it secret. Keep it safe.

Bilbo knew that Gandalf was more than capable of taking care of himself, but the hobbit was worried. The wizard had been so frantic, so _grim_ on his last trip to Erebor, and he had not been seen since. Bilbo had made a point to ask around the travellers' haunts in Dale every now and again, but there was no word of any wizard at all.

He had hoped that Gandalf would return in time to attend Frodo's birthday party, but now he would settle for a simple note to say that the wizard was still alive.

Still, there had been nearly forty years between Gandalf's last visit to the Shire and the quest for Erebor, so he was probably just doing… well, whatever it was that wizards did when they were not instigating adventures or getting perfectly good hobbits into awful trouble.

Bilbo smiled wryly and took a sip of tea. He was glad that Gandalf had dragged him and Kíli into trouble. Really, he would recommend a decent dose of trouble to anyone – not death and destruction of course, just a fair amount of discomfort and maybe even a dash of suffering for something really worthwhile. The rewards were always that much sweeter after a struggle.

There was an almighty crash from the other side of the room, followed by a yelp, a wail and a _"Bodin! Look what you've done now!"_

Jumping to his feet and hurrying towards the sound of tears, Bilbo qualified that trouble should come between _very_ long periods of peace, and not bother those who had just finished travelling all the way around the world. By the time Bilbo got to the other end of the dining room, a crying child was already tucked away in Fíli's arms, while Kíli, Gimli and Bragi were siphoning people away from mass of broken china on the floor.

"Oh dear, that was my Great Aunt Lily's tea set," Bilbo mourned, turning to Fíli and Frerin in his next breath. "Are you alright, mizimith?"

"It bited me!" Frerin sobbed, holding up his hand to show a splinter sticking out of his little finger.

"Oh, dear!" Bilbo repeated, holding the boy's hand still. "Auntie Dís, we have an emergency and could do with your fingernails."

His wife was by his side before he had finished his sentence. "That's a big, nasty splinter, Frerin. You're very brave."

"I'm so sorry," Bodin choked, in tears himself. "I was carrying a tray of things be washed and he ran underneath my feet, I just tripped!"

"It's alright," Fíli's voice was as calm and soothing as ever. "It's alright, Bodin, it was an accident. And Frerin was more frightened than hurt, weren't you little one?"

"It made a big bang," Frerin nodded, wincing as Dís plucked the china from his skin.

"Brave boy," she praised, kissing the little finger.

"He'll be right, lad," Dwalin insisted. "Just a wee splinter. Isn't that right, kurdith?"

Frerin sniffed and nodded, resting his head on Fíli's shoulder.

 _"Grab a broom, Bodin,"_ Bifur said in Khuzdul. _"Clean up the mess you have made and everything will be fine."_

"No, no, there's an awful lot of sharp edges," Bilbo insisted. "Bodin, how about you and your sisters take Eyja and Frerin outside to play? It looks like the rain is holding off off – in fact Kíli could show you the best play area in Hobbiton!"

"But I made the mess," Bodin chewed on his lip and wrung his hands. "I'm really very sorry-"

"It was an accident," Bilbo said. "No one was hurt-"

"My finger!"

"No one was hurt _badly,"_ Bilbo corrected. "And I never really liked that tea set anyway. Aunt Lily was a lovely woman, but she had horrible taste. No, let the adults deal with this and don't be so hard on yourself."

"To the trees!" Kíli threw Eyja over his shoulder and ran, cackling, to the door. A hesitant Bodin followed with his sisters, Fíli, and Frerin. Gimli, Soren, Bragi, Ehren and Bombur's eldest two boys stared after them like dogs being told to wait.

"Oh, off you go," Bilbo grinned, and the six of them all but fell over each other trying to get to the door. "You wouldn't believe half of them are of age, would you? Alright, Bifur, could you pass me that broom please? And Bofur, you know where the dustpan is – and grab one of those buckets? Thank you. Poor old Bodin – he looked so upset."

"It's easy to forget, sometimes, that he and Pippin are the same age," commented Bofur, waltzing over with a dustpan, brush and a bucket. "Hobbits grow up so much faster than dwarves."

"Aye," Elza nodded. "It's dizzying. Pippin's in his late tweens, while Bofin is still very much a child – he has _decades_ before he fully hits adolescence!"

"It does baffle me," Bilbo admitted. "But all we can do is treat them their age as best we can."

"While the younger ones are gone, I'd like to ask you, Bilbo," Elza piped up, tucking her hair behind her ears and rolling up her sleeves. "Have you begun the plans for Frodo's birthday? And how can we help?"

"Oh, I've got plans," Bilbo grinned. "And I tell you, it will be a night to remember."

 **I hope you enjoyed the introduction to** ** _The Last, The Lost, The Least!_** **If you have any comments I'd love to hear them!**

 **If all goes well I should update rather soon, and I'll do my best to have regular updates. However, come September I'll be starting my third year at university, so I can't promise anything :'(**

 **As a note to any new readers who have not read Strangers Like Me – the ageing rates of dwarves and hobbits are completely ridiculous in this story. When I began Strangers I didn't expect to go very far so I never gave it much thought at the start.**

 **So, the long and the short of it is that they age very slowly, particularly dwarves, who hit their teens at around 60 physically, and then are fully grown at around 80. Mentally they would be more advanced than human children of a similar physical state would be, since they've been around for longer. As touched on at the end of the chapter, both Bodin and Pippin are 27 years old, but while Pippin is only 2 years younger than he was in the** ** _Lord of the Rings_** **(so around 15/16 in human years) Bodin is physically and emotionally the equivalent of a seven year old. It's very messed up, I know, but I hope you can look over it for the sake of the story. Everything else world-wise is as canon as possible.**

 **I really hope you enjoyed it, do let me know if you fancy :D**


	2. Chapter 2: The Birthday Party

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! I appreciate each and every one! I'm sorry if I missed anyone in replying, and I am sorry that this chapter took a little while.**

 **Apologies also for any typos there may be in here, but other than that we can get right to it, I think.**

 **Read, Enjoy, and Review!**

 **Chapter Two: The Birthday Party #**

An hour before the sun began to light the horizon, a pair of deep blue eyes opened to the dark. A yawn broke the soft harmony of snores and slow sleep breaths, and a young hobbit stretched her arms up above her head. In one fluid movement she sat up, without so much as shifting the blankets for her little sister beside her. Letting her eyes adjust for a moment, she swung her legs out over the side of the bed and yawned again, drawing little circles in the air with her feet.

She stood up, slipping silently across the room and stepping over the bundle of blankets that was her older sister on the floor. In mere moments, she had dressed herself in dwarven leggings and a long tunic top, dragged her hair into a ponytail and closed the bedroom door behind her. An apple was swiped from the kitchen, and the front door unbolted.

The world wished Nelly 'Good morning' with a slap of cool damp air, and she smiled. It was so good to draw fresh, earth-soaked air into your lungs first thing in the morning. In Erebor she made frequent trips to the balconies, and the gardens and young forests on the mountain's slopes, but they had nothing on the Shire, especially in these early hours when only bakers and farmers were stirring.

She began to jog into the dark morning, out of her grandparent's house and towards the centre of Hobbiton. The first few days that she had spent here had seen her graze fence posts and stumble over mismatched flagstones, but she had adjusted to the lay of the land and now she could simply run. The dim light of the fading moon and stars were enough to see by, in any case.

She passed through the empty market and ran up towards Bag End, increasing her speed as she began to climb the hill. As she passed by the Bagginses' front door, she noticed a pile of dwarven boots strewn over the garden bench, and she smiled.

Only yesterday, Vinca had challenged the adult dwarves to go barefoot in the Shire, the way that the younger dwarves all did. The sight of Thorin Oakenshield in his regal garb with bare (and very pale) feet had been amusing, to say the least.

When she had allowed gravity to speed her down the hill, Nelly checked her pace and slowed down a little. She ran a ring around the Party Field, gazing at the white shadows of tents and gazebos set up for later that day. Excitement curled in her stomach – after all their preparation, after a journey all the way across the world, the day of the party was finally here. But while the sight was promising, she could not help but think of parties of old. When she was a child, celebrations were held in the meadow of the Old Party Tree.

The Battle of Hobbiton had ended that. Nelly had only been nine years old at the time, but she could still remember the day and its aftermath. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the red-stained dirt, and the scorch marks around the dead grass. Their beautiful meadow had been scarred, and their peaceful world had been shattered. The dead were not legendary soldiers, but people that Nelly had known, people she had cared for deeply. Her cousins, Everard and Hazel Took, had both been slain, as had Merry's Uncle Barney.

As had Sam's mother.

Dwarves liked to sing of their battles and build monuments to commemorate their dead, but hobbits were quieter in their grief. There was no great monument, and no long song dedicated to the Battle that was mentioned so scarcely, but it was not forgotten. The meadow where the battle had taken place was now a sea of flowers, tended for largely by the families of the deceased. Carved into the Old Party Tree were the seventeen names of the seventeen fallen, and beneath them was carved '1342 SR' – the year of the battle in Shire reckoning.

Bróin had been surprised when she brought him there.

 _"I thought you said this was a memorial?" he frowned at her. "I understand that your people use flowers to say things, but how could they speak of the battle?"_

 _"They do not," Nelly explained. "There is no mention of the battle here, other than the date. The flowers all represent memory, love, grief, that sort of thing."_

 _"It's so strange that you wouldn't want to laud such sacrifice. Surely you wouldn't forget the battle?"_

 _"No, but this isn't a memorial for the battle, it's for the victims," said Nelly. "Nobody wants to remember the fighting. They want to remember the people."_

 _Bróin was quiet for a long moment, and then he grinned rather sadly. "Y'know, the world'd be a lot better place if everyone had the same outlook on life as hobbits do."_

 _"Ah," Nelly painted a smile on her own face. "You'd get bored."_

 _"Not at all," Bróin slung an arm around her shoulders. "I'd just throw myself into organised wrestling."_

Smiling sadly, Nelly left the new party meadow behind, hurdled over a fence, and ran down the road and into the Memorial Meadow itself. She slowed down a little, trailing her hand through the flowers. She could still remember hiding in the Old Mill, and stabbing the little knife that Nori had given her into the leg of the huge man threatening to kill Merry. She could remember running with a fear that she had never felt before, and she remembered watching an enormous man hold a knife against Frodo's throat.

They had not been anywhere near the battle, but it had been a rather horrific day all the same.

When she reached the Old Party Tree she paused and knelt down for a moment.

"Thank you," she murmured, "for fighting. Thank you for protecting my family. I'm so sorry that it cost you your lives."

It was part of her morning ritual, while she was here, to thank the dead fighters who were anything but warriors. It would feel awfully rude to run through and ignore them.

But it was time to move on now.

She stood up and jogged to the edge of the field, passing the nearby houses before she sped up into a run again. The sky was beginning to light a little, allowing her to just about see as she followed her usual route into the little forest. Dodging the many natural obstacles in her path, she pushed into a sprint. Nori had made her race through all sorts of obstacle courses through the years, and though she had been bruised and scraped more times than she could count she had eventually become rather good at it. It was a nice challenge to run in a place where your environment could change with a guest of wind or a passing animal, especially where it was barely light enough to see.

Faster and faster, she wove her way to the large tree that formed the setting for her nightmares and her daydreams. Her parents, uncle and Kíli referred to it as 'their' tree, and she had grown up in its branches. They all had.

Nelly climbed easily, making her way to the strong boughs halfway up, and then sat still for a few moments in the early morning breeze. She let her eyes close and her mind empty. It was a trick that she had learnt from Elladan and Elrohir, the cheery sons of Elrond, over several visits to Rivendell, and a couple of their visits to New Dale and Erebor.

This had been her routine for more than a decade, no matter where she was, who she was with, or how spontaneous she was during the day. In the hours before sunlight she would train her body – running and simplistic exercises – and her mind with meditation. She would do it alone, and return to her family or companions just as the sun came up. Then, as the day grew older, she would let it take her where it would.

Nelly had begun her little ritual as an effort to prove to her parents that she was more than capable of joining Nori's 'Watchers' – a group of skilled, spy-like dwarves who aided the guards in maintaining peace and safety in Erebor. It had since become so much more than that. She found that without her mornings running alone she would become rather irritable, and with them she could deal with her chaotic family all day long, without a trace of weariness. Her brother thought she was mad – Pippin could not understand how waking up hours earlier than you need to could make one less tired. Nelly, on the other hand, could not understand how one could live life without a waking moment of solitude.

The quiet bird song around her began to grow a little louder. When Nelly opened her eyes, it was light enough to see her surroundings with little difficulty. She stood up, pausing but a moment to adjust her balance. Then, she bent over and grabbed a hold of the branch, kicking her legs up into the air. She walked along the branch on her hands, her stomach swooping as the bough swayed a little. The balance beams and swinging poles at Erebor never shifted.

It was a thrilling feeling.

She walked back to the base of the tree and then rested her legs against the trunk, before kicking them backwards over her head to make a wobbly landing on the bough. Controlling her breathing with care, she ran through several other drills and exercises, choreographing as she went. Nori always said that it was foolish to repeat the same techniques day after day, as your body would simply get used to them.

Finally, the sky was light enough to tell her that the sun had almost broken over the horizon, so she hopped out of the tree and began to run once again.

She skidded to a halt outside her grandparents' door just in time to see the sun peeking over the hills. It would be another half hour or so before her family woke, even on a day like today, so she had no contest for the bathroom – that was the other plus of getting up early.

One cold shower later, she snuck into the kitchen and made herself some toast, gazing out of the window as she ate. The grass glittered beneath the rising sun, and she could not see a single cloud.

Yawning, Pippin shuffled into the room. "Morning."

"Morning," Nelly sang. "You've got drool on your chin."

Pippin rubbed at his chin and sat down. "You're in that old dressing gown again."

"My, you're very observant this morning," Nelly replied lightly. "And up earlier than usual."

Pippin just yawned. "You ought to go and get dressed. Papa won't be impressed if you're still strolling around like that when he wakes."

Nelly rolled her eyes. "I'm going now. Don't worry yourself, laddie."

"I'm not worried about you; I'm worried about my ears. It's too early to hear all the yelling."

"Aw, wee lamb," Nelly drawled, putting her plate in the sink and returning to the bedroom she shared with her sleeping sisters. Pippin had a point – it was not particularly ladylike or acceptable for a girl to flounce around the house in a naught but a knee-length dressing gown, in the Shire or Erebor, but no one was usually up this early anyway.

Shaking her head, she opened the wardrobe, mindful of the squeaking door, and pulled out the outfit her grandmother had made her. Even at the age of ninety-three, her Grandma Daisy was an incredible seamstress.

Nelly began to get dressed, starting with her undergarments and then the ivory coloured undershirt and underskirt, both embroidered with flowers. Next came the dusty blue bodice, embroidered at the front and tied with ribbons at the back, then finally the matching skirt, split down the front to show off the embroidery of the underskirt. The outfit came halfway down her shins – a fashionable hobbit choice that was unseen in Erebor. It had been years since she had worn such an outfit, and she had to admit that she was enjoying dressing up.

By the time she got out her combs and beads, Vinca and Pearl were up and arguing vehemently with Merry over who got to use the bathroom first. Nelly snickered. Careful to keep her hair as hobbitish as possible, she gathered the top half up and braided into a little bun, letting the rest hang loose. In with a decorative comb and – there. She was done.

It felt strange dressing up without the nakhdu id'ubd, the traditional dwarven face paint, but there was something about seeing her naked face in the mirror that she liked. It felt very natural.

When her grandfather called out that food was ready, Nelly ate rather slowly, savouring every bite of Adalgrim Took's famous full Shire breakfast, while her siblings, parents, aunts and cousins wolfed down their food in various states of dress. Once upon a time she would have been the last to get ready, but she had learnt that it was far easier to sort yourself first out and watch the rest run around like headless chickens. She got reprimanded far less for that.

She was playing cards when her grandmother walked into the room. "Cup of tea, my dear?"

"Oh, I'd love one, thank you," Nelly smiled, taking the steaming cup happily.

"Perfect! I made one for your Grandfather, but he had made his own." Grandma Daisy sat down beside her. "I must say, I do love it when you come back to visit us."

"Me too," Nelly squeezed her grandmother's hand.

"Are you happy in that big old city, lass?"

"Oh, yes," Nelly enthused, unable to help her grin. "You should come back with us for a visit! It's really a sight to see. And there's so much to do, all the time! Take Pearl, for example, she teaches dancing to little dwarflings and choreographs all these huge shows with professional dancers. Then on her off days she runs around like a hooligan with the rest of us, doing whatever we want to do! Tea parties, pranking people, dances, concerts, painting, singing – just, anything you can think of. Oh, you would _love_ it Grandma!"

Daisy chuckled. "I'm a bit old for such a journey, Nell."

"You're only as old as you want to be," Nelly winked, and her grandmother laughed again. "No, I do love it. I am very happy there."

"With that Bróin lad?"

" _Grandma_!" Nelly groaned. "Not you, too! We're friends, that is all."

"Ah, I can't help myself. I'd like to see my grandchildren married before I go on."

Nelly rolled her eyes.

"Speaking of marriage, I'd have thought that young Bilbo and Dís might've had a babe or two by now. Goodness knows they have enough practise raising children."

Nelly's heart fell. "Grandma, I'm not sure that they can."

Daisy's smile collapsed. "What do you mean?"

Looking around, Nelly leant closer and lowered her voice. "Dís has fallen pregnant four times in the past two decades. She lost two before they were much of a bump, and the others were stillborn later. It was awful, Grandma, they were crushed. We all were."

"Oh, Nelly, I'm so sorry for poking in," Daisy put her hand on her heart. "That's just dreadful."

Nelly sighed sadly. "I know. I think they're trying not to, now."

"Poor souls," Daisy shook her head. "I lost a son you know, before your father was born. Peregrin, was his name. He was such a tiny little thing, and he only lived a few hours. It is not something that you ever forget."

"I didn't know that," Nelly murmured. "Is that why Pippin…"

"Indeed," Daisy smiled sadly. "We told Paladin and Esme of their brother, but it is still a sad subject today."

"And that's why Papa and Aunt Esme are called your youngest children by some of the old folk?"

"Aye, it's their way of remembering. My, this is no subject to dwell on when it is the day of such a big party. We should be celebrating!"

"Yes," Nelly took a deep breath and smiled, raising her tea cup like a tankard. "Yes, we should. Despite all bets, Frodo Baggins actually made it to adulthood!"

Daisy laughed. "Pimpernel Took!"

"Oh, but we did such stupid things, Grandma," Nelly insisted. "It's a wonder any of us are still alive, really!"

"And you don't do stupid things anymore?" Daisy raised an eyebrow.

"That depends on your definition of stupid," Nelly said lightly.

Daisy laughed again. "Well, just you be careful, lass. I – oh, there's the doorbell. Be a dear and grab that for me, lass."

"Of course," Nelly jumped up and skipped over to the door. She opened it, and her jaw dropped.

"Am I hobbitish enough for you?" asked Bróin, gesturing to his three-quarter length trousers, braces, light shirt, waistcoat, scarf and jacket. His feet were bare and his hair – his hair had _curls_ in it, and hung just above his shoulders!

She laughed brightly. "Nice! How did you do your hair? You did not cut it?!"

"No, I didn't cut it! I let my sisters at it and slept with knots in my hair all night. Now I have about fifteen thousand pins digging into my scalp to make it look shorter, and I look like a poodle."

"Nelly, who is it?" her grandmother called from the kitchen.

"Just Bróin," Nelly called back.

There was a thud from the adjoining room, and Uncle Saradoc poked his head out of the door. "Good heavens, is that the time?"

"Midday is in five minutes and counting," Bróin nodded.

Saradoc went pale and yelled. _"Five-minute warning, let's go, let's go, let's go! Esme, now is_ not _the time to start your hair again, let's go! This is not a drill; I repeat_ not _a drill – Vinca are you not even_ dressed! _"_

Ignoring the mayhem behind her, Nelly turned back to Bróin. "You don't look like a poodle."

"You didn't see it loose," Bróin muttered, though he was grinning. "It's alright now that it's pinned up and isn't falling in long, flowing ringlets down my back."

Nelly snorted. "I can imagine. But yes, in answer to your first question. You do look hobbitish enough."

"Good," Bróin leant against the doorframe with a grin. "You should see Thorin. It's hilarious."

"Oh, please tell me there are curls in his hair!"

"Not quite," Bróin admitted. "But he's in full hobbit dress. Red shorts, white top, green waistcoat, red jacket. Ori's drawing a picture of it as we speak, so we can frame it and keep it forever."

"Wonderful!" Nelly clapped her hands together and looked over her shoulder. "Are we ready to go?"

"No!"

Nelly sighed. "Well I am, so we're going to go ahead, alright?" She sauntered out of the door, raising her eyebrows at Bróin. "Well, are you coming?"

He offered her his arm. "Of course."

They were barely halfway down the lane when the sound of music met their ears, and a young blonde tween ran towards them, her blonde hair flying behind her and her blue eyes sparkling.

"Nelly!"

"Who's this?" Bróin murmured.

"Estella!" Nelly ignored him, hugging her young friend tightly. "Where have you been? I haven't seen you since the last trip!"

"I've been down in Deep Hollow, with my mother's family for the last few months, my grandma wasn't too well," Estella explained cheerfully. "But she was well enough to travel up for Frodo's birthday today, we got here late last night."

"That's wonderful – though I'm sorry your grandmother was sick. This is Bróin, by the way. Bróin, this is Estella Bolger, Fatty's little sister."

"Ah," Bróin nodded, grinning at the tween. "It's lovely to meet you, your brother's a riot."

"He _starts_ a riot every time Merry, Frodo and Pippin leave, but if you dare suggest he leave the Shire, _nooo,_ that's out of the question," Estella rolled her eyes.

"There's nothing wrong with loving your homeland," Bróin said, but then he added with a wink, "there's nothing wrong with a bit of wanderlust either."

Nelly rolled her eyes with a wry smile. "Vinca's still inside, I think, if you're looking for her, Stella."

"Thanks, Nelly," Estella beamed, waving goodbye and running off the way that Nelly and Bróin had just come.

"Could you perhaps not flirt with every pretty lass that you ever meet? It's just embarrassing."

"I wasn't flirting," Bróin protested. "I was just being friendly! She's Vinca's friend, is she not?"

"Estella and Vinca were _best_ friends, close as you and I, back when we lived in Hobbiton, and they're still really close now."

"I've heard Vinca talk about her before. I have to say though, Fatty is very odd nickname."

"Oh, he's been called Fatty since we were toddling," Nelly waved her hand. "I can't remember who started it. The boys and Fatty were always really close, but like Estella said I can't imagine him ever leaving the Shire. He's only got more attached to home the more that we leave."

As if summoned by their very voices, Fatty Bolger appeared. "Oh, hello Nelly, Bróin. You haven't seen my sister, have you?"

"Yep," Nelly smiled. "She's just gone back to grandma and grandpa's to see Vinca."

Fatty sighed and rolled his eyes. "Pa told me to escort her to the party and within five seconds she's disappeared."

"Escort us instead," Nelly offered Fatty her other arm and he grinned at took it.

"Alright, don't mind if I do. Do you have this much trouble keeping track of your brothers and sisters, Bróin? I can't imagine having four of them, one is stressful enough."

"Seven. I have seven siblings. The youngest three are still in Erebor," Bróin explained. "Bolin was going to come with us, but he broke his leg a couple of days before we left. Poor kid. Bowin and Olin weren't going to come anyway – our parents thought they were too young for so long a journey. Bowin is five and Olin, well she's just a baby! But yeah, it's hard to keep track of them sometimes."

"I didn't know that," Fatty sounded surprised. "I thought dwarves didn't have so many children?"

"Well, my father never does anything by halves," Bróin said cheerfully. "Luckily I have a reputation for getting into an awful lot of trouble, so I'm not usually put in charge of the little ones."

"This music sounds pretty good," Nelly commented as they drew closer to the meadow.

"It's the Howling Hornblowers, a band who came up all the way from Longbottom," said Fatty. "I saw them perform a while ago now, they're very good."

"Wow," Bróin murmured as they strode, arm in arm, into the meadow. "I didn't realise that there was so much going on! Games, shows, food – this is more like a festival than a party!"

"Oh, look!" Nelly gasped. "Darts! Let's go play!"

They bounded across the meadow towards the large dartboard, parting the gathering crowd. The whole of Hobbiton and the surrounding villages had been invited, as had folk from all four farthings. There were many Tooks present, and almost every member of Brandy Hall had made the journey from Buckland to celebrate their young cousin's birthday. It was, of course, Bilbo's birthday as well, but he had steered all the emphasis on Frodo this year.

Bilbo's organisation was impeccable. The caterers kept a constant supply of food and drink flowing, and when the 'Howling Hornblowers' bowed off of the stage there was another band there immediately to take its place. There were magnificent presents for everyone attending – including the musicians and caterers – and not one of the several hundred guests was lacking something to do.

There were dozens of games set up, for those ranging from their toddling years to adulthood – Kíli, Fíli and Gimli had insisted on dragging Frodo to his first official drinking game later that evening. There were puppet shows and storytellers (Bilbo and Bofur being the most popular) and the merry atmosphere had even the Sackville-Bagginses smiling.

The food stopped coming around two hours before dinner, so when Bilbo blew a loud toot on a horn and announced that it was time to eat, there was an enthusiastic round of applause from the crowd. Frodo could not help but smile when little Eyja got so excited at the sight of _outdoor_ candlelit tables that she ran straight into the back of her Uncle Thorin. The dwarf king cackled and lifted her off of the floor, throwing her into the air with a menacing – "I've got you now!"

"No!" she squealed, a huge grin on her face. "Adad, _help!"_

"You're on your own, lass!" Dwalin replied, trying to get Frerin into his seat. It was quite a task, because the boy did not want to sit down at all – he had been halfway through making a daisy chain with some little hobbits when dinner way called, and he found it most unfair that he had been interrupted. "Sit _down,_ lad."

Frodo could see Thorin's eyes twinkling as he came to take his seat just a few places down from him, Eyja still sitting on his hip. The young Baggins was delighted to note that his whole family seemed happy and at peace here, especially the dwarves. That was as good a present as any, let alone the fantastic party Bilbo had thrown in his honour.

The whole thing made Frodo feel quite small, really.

"Speech!" Someone called, when the smattering of cutlery on plates had given way to the sound of contented chatter. "Speech!"

Frodo glanced at Bilbo by his side, and his uncle smiled and stood up.

"Well, all right then," he called indulgently, though Frodo knew full well that Bilbo loved a good speech. For all his talk of being a simple hobbit with simple needs, Bilbo Baggins was a drama queen at heart. "My dear Bagginses and Boffins, Tooks and Brandybucks, Grubbs, Chubbs, Hornblowers, Bolgers, Bracegirdles, Proudfoots-"

"Proudfeet!" roared Olo Proudfoot.

"Proudfoots, Goodbodies, Brockhouses, assorted dwarves and other guests," Bilbo began. "And oh yes, not to forget the… dear Sackville-Bagginses! To you all, I say welcome and thank you! Thank you all for coming to celebrate my dear cousin's birthday."

Resounding cheers made Frodo's face burn, but he grinned and clapped with a "Hear, hear!"

"While it is also my own seventy-third birthday, I think that we can all agree that Frodo's thirty-third – his coming of age – is infinitely more important. I have had the great honour of raising him for the past twenty-two years, and I am both delighted and proud to say that Frodo Baggins has become a fine young hobbit."

The cheers at these words were louder yet, and there was an explosion of applause. Beaming, Frodo raised his glass appreciatively at Bilbo, who bowed his head and smiled warmly.

"Your parents would be very proud of you," he said softly, "and I am sure that they are here in spirit with you today."

There was a much quieter smattering of applause now, and Frodo smiled sadly. He still missed his parents, and their absence still hurt, but with the help of Bilbo, his family and the Mind Healers of Erebor he had long since made peace with their deaths. When their faces swam in his mind they were smiling and hugging him. They were happy.

"Does Uncle Bilbo mean that they are ghosts?" Eyja cried, looking around with wide eyes, and there was a ripple of laughter.

"No, sweetheart," Thorin assured her, fixing her askew bonnet. "He means that they are watching from the Halls of Mandos."

"Oh!" Eyja frowned. "Can they do that?"

"Hush now, Uncle Bilbo has not finished talking," Thorin murmured, tweaking her nose. "We shall talk later, alright?"

Bilbo winked at Eyja and Thorin. "After our many adventures and misadventures, there are many stories that I could tell today, but as it is not _my_ day I would lie to invite Frodo to say a few words for himself."

Frodo, who had been expecting this, smiled and stood up. "I would simply like to thank everyone for coming, and thank my uncle, aunt and the rest of our family for organising this wonderful party. So please, my friends, drink yourself merry and enjoy the dancing!"

An enormous, tumultuous cheer rose up like a wave at his words, and as if waiting for that very cue the Howling Hornblowers leapt back onto the stage and took up their instruments, accompanied by several young hobbits with their birthday presents. Many little flutes and pipes and drums had been given out by the Bagginses, and within seconds a lively tune was rousing the well-fed crowd.

Frodo danced until his feet felt like rocks. The night had grown dark around them, the little ones were falling asleep in their seats and the third band were playing by the time he slumped into a seat to catch his breath.

Pearl whirled over to him and pressed a tankard into his hand. "Ale?"

"Thank you," Frodo gasped as he caught his breath, taking it gratefully and rubbing the stitch on his side. "Are you…having a good time?"

"Oh yes," she enthused, hardly sounding out of breath at all. "Dwarven balls are all well and good-"

"Pfft!" Frodo snorted. "You _love_ the balls! You try and convince Thorin to throw them every month!"

Pearl rolled her eyes. "Well, yes, I do love a good ball, _but_ there's nothing quite like a hobbit party. I've missed the dances. Ooh! When we get back we should throw a dance, hobbit style!"

"That sounds like a wonderful idea, but no one will've grown up learning the steps," Frodo pointed out eagerly. "We'll have to teach them!"

Pearl sighed happily. "I can't wait." Then she pushed her hair from her eyes. "Drink up, little cousin."

"Excuse me," Frodo raised his eyebrows. "I am of age now, and you most certainly are not. Being two inches taller than me does not make me your 'little cousin'. You are _my_ little cousin."

"Only six months and I'll be of age too!" Pearl pinched his cheeks and then danced out of reach. "Bye-bye, baby Baggins!"

Frodo simply laughed, taking a swig of the ale she had brought him. Sam danced past with Rosie Cotton in his arms and a somewhat terrified look in his eye, behind his elated smile. Raising his tankard with a wink, Frodo encouraged him to keep dancing and laughed at Sam's face.

Something soft thwacked into his foot and he looked down. There was a small hand resting against his foot, attached to the little arm of a lightly snoring girl. Frodo smiled – Eyja was snoozing under the table, her little brother tucked beneath her arm. Frerin blinked up at Frodo with bleary eyes.

"Frodo?"

"Hello, Frerin. Would you like to go do bed, perhaps?"

"Not," Frerin yawned. "Sleepy."

"Oh, I see!" Frodo nodded.

"Don't tell Ama," the child snuffled, and he wiggled closer to his sister. "She'll make us go to bed and we're not…even…tired."

Frodo winked and stood up, carefully pushing the chair in so that they were concealed once more beneath the table. It was not at all unusual in the Shire for children to put themselves to sleep when the hour grew late, and the dwarves had embraced all other parts of a hobbit party wholeheartedly. Nevertheless, he should probably let Elza know where they were.

Once he had told her, Frodo was dragged back to the dancefloor by Bofin and Bróin, only to be dragged back off again by Fíli and Kíli.

"Drinking game," Kíli said firmly. "We promised."

"Alright, alright, I'm coming!" Frodo laughed, letting the princes push him into a seat around a small table.

They took up the seats either side of him, and Gimli took the seat opposite.

"Right!" the redhead declared, rubbing his hands together. "The rules – the judge gives a category and you go around the circle saying something related without repetition or hesitation. If you do, you must empty your drink. Last dwarf or dwobbit standing wins."

"Very well," Frodo drew in a deep breath and took the mug that Dwalin was offering him. All the hobbits that had been raised in Erebor among the dwarves now shared Kíli's title of 'dwobbit'.

"I'll be the judge," Dwalin explained, ruffling Frodo's hair. "You'll all get the same drinks in the same order. Any spewing and you're out. If at any time you want to surrender, raise your left fist in the hair."

Frodo nodded, somewhat nervously.

"And don't worry," Kíli said soothingly. "You're a hobbit and a newer drinker than we, so really you stand no chance, but it's good fun anyway and we'll look after you if you black out. Should the worst come to the worst, there'll be someone to get you home safely. You don't have to worry about anything. Just sit back, play and for the love of all things holy do _not_ let Bilbo see us. Right, over to you, Mister Dwalin!"

"Right," Dwalin cleared his throat. "The first category… types of flowers."

Frodo laughed as Gimli and Fíli groaned, and the game began. To everyone's surprise, Frodo held out for much longer than anyone expected, but by midnight he was dozing on Kíli's shoulder.

"He's dribbling!" Kíli giggled in delight, his own head lolling a little more freely on his shoulders than usual. "Just like when he was, was a baby."

"You still," Fíli hiccupped, "don't know how to hold your liquor, Kee."

"Le's get him home," Kíli ignored his brother, standing onto his trembling legs and lifted Frodo into his arms.

"No, no, no!" Dwalin let out a growling laugh and peeled the two apart, throwing Frodo gently over his shoulder. "You'll just fall over and break the poor lad's head. It's time for us all to – what do you hobbits say – hit the hay."

"Hit the hay," Kíli nodded fervently. "Smack the straw. Bash the barley. Oops…" He had walked right into a table.

Dwalin grabbed the younger prince by the arm and led him slowly and clumsily up to Bag End. The party was dying, and the lights were fading, the bands had all bowed off stage.

Bilbo Baggins stood alone in the meadow when the last few guests had meandered out and smiled. The buzz of alcohol and dancing was still coursing through his veins, but that was nothing compared to the warm feeling of happiness that enveloped him. The party had gone better than he could have possibly expected. The dark clouds rolling in did not dismay him, and he little felt the weight of the ring at all.

Everything felt perfect.

Or at least, it would have felt perfect, if it were not for the absence of an old friend in an old, grey hat.

 **I very much hope that you enjoyed that chapter! As ever, I hope to get the next one up shortly, but I cannot make any promises. I also hope to update The Living Years (a drabble series about this particular universe) relatively soon too!**

 **Thank you for reading, please leave a little review if you fancy. I love hearing your feedback!**


	3. Chapter 3: Olórin

**Thank you so much for the lovely reviews for the last chapter. A shout out goes to Dis Thrainsdotte, who I could not reply to – thank you so much, I am glad that you're enjoying the story and I hope your questions will be answered shortly.**

 **Also – HAPPY HOBBIT DAY – happy birthday to Bilbo and Frodo Baggins! Which is kind of annoying, because the last chapter took place on the 22** **nd** **of September, not this one :( Ah well, I did my best to get this one up for you by this awesome day :D As such, sorry if there are any typos I did not catch!**

 **Please read, enjoy and review if you'd like!**

 **Chapter Three # Olórin #**

Kíli was having such a good dream. The Shire was full of large, shimmering bubbles, and he was soaring over the hills with the wind in his hair and his heart pounding to the beat of a fast banging drum.

He was about to skim his toes through the glowing, neon lake when the drums grew louder and faster, dragging him to a stop. He frowned. He wanted to keep flying, to go higher and higher and higher still, but he was stuck like a fly in a honey jar. None of his limbs would move, and he was suspended fifty feet above the ground.

Then he fell, and woke up.

There was a loud banging sound – someone was trying, it seemed, to break down their front door. The last time that this had happened so late at night, the Shire was under attack.

Blinking the sleep out of his eyes and tucking a nearby knife into his fluffy dressing gown, Kíli hopped over a stirring Fíli to the door.

"Wha's goin' on?" Bragi groaned groggily.

"I don't know," Kíli murmured. "Probably nothing. Maybe something. Come running if you hear me scream."

"Righto," yawned Bragi, though Kíli knew that Bragi was now shaking off his own sleep.

Kíli shuffled to the door, his heart rate increasing now as the knocking on the door grew louder and faster.

"Kíli?" came a sleepy voice behind him. It was Bilbo, and soft, thudding footsteps from the other direction told him that at least one member of Dwalin's family was awake too.

Glancing over at Bilbo, Kíli shrugged and then peered out of the window by the door. It was dark, but he could just about make out the vague shape of a large, ragged figure in a cloak. A chill ran down Kíli's spine and his hand tightened around his knife.

"Who is it?" he barked.

"Gandalf!" a booming voice replied. "It is Gandalf, Kíli Baggins, and I highly suggest that you open the door, now!"

Startled, Kíli paused for a moment, before sliding the bolt across and opening the door. His stomach churned.

It was indeed Gandalf standing outside the door, but Kíli had never seen him in such a state, not even after the Battle of the Five Armies.

His hat was gone, and his hair was matted with blood and filth. His grey robes looked more like brown, but they were splattered with stains of green and black and deep red, and torn greatly beyond their usual scruffiness. But his attire, for all its filth and holes, was nothing compared to his face.

Gandalf was emaciated. His cheeks and eyes were sunken, and his nose looked as though it had been broken several times, and recently. He was so gaunt that his skin hung looser than ever, his wrinkles all the more pronounced, and he looked more fragile and delicate than Kíli could ever have imagined him. There was a deep gash through one of his eyebrows, sitting in the middle of a green-tinged bruise, and there was blood staining his beard.

It was the eyes that shocked Kíli the most. They were fathomless, empty and haunted, but fear shone on the surface clear as crystal.

"Gandalf!" Kíli cried, flinging open the door. "Come in, come in! You look awful! What happened? Where have you been? Are you alright- are you hurt?"

"One thing at a time, my dear Kíli," Gandalf's mouth twitched towards a smile for just a fraction of a second as he ducked inside. "Where is Bilbo?"

"I'm here," Kíli's father scurried over. "What's wrong?"

The urgency in Gandalf's tone increased further. "Is it secret? Is it safe?"

Kíli's stomach gave an odd sort of lurch – he had an idea that he knew what they were talking about.

"Well, uh, yes, I think s-"

"What's going on?" Frerin rubbed at his eyes, but dropped his hands at the sight of the large, ragged figure at the door. "Who's this? Uncle Bilbo-"

"Go back to bed, my dear boy, everything is alright," Bilbo's voice was soothing, but firm.

"But, but Uncle Bilbo," Frerin whispered, clutching at the doorframe that he was poking around. "It's… it's…"

"Not now, Frerin, I want you to go back to bed," Bilbo said. "Don't wake your sister, or your parents, just go back to sleep."

"Eyja and Adad are already awake," Frerin whispered. "Uncle Bilbo, I, I, I-"

"Frerin."

"I can't!" the dwarfling cried in a trembling voice. "I can't just leave you with scary stranger, he might, might, hurt you!"

Gandalf's eyes narrowed. "Dwalin's boy?"

Bilbo nodded, and Kíli cut over him. He was loathe to leave when Gandalf clearly had such important and urgent news. "Frerin, why don't you and I go for some warm milk and a cookie, hm? This is Mister Gandalf, and he's a very old friend of the family's. He won't hurt anyone."

Frerin's fingers clutched the door so tightly that his knuckles grew white. His dark, blue-green eyes flickered from Kíli to Bilbo to Gandalf, then back to Kíli. "But...but… Kíli, I'm scared. He's got blood all over!"

"No need to be scared," Kíli said briskly, striding over towards Frerin and lifting him up onto his hip. "You remember Mister Gandalf from the stories of the quest for Erebor, do you not?"

Frerin put his two fingers into his mouth and began to suck on them. He nodded once, his eyes now fixed on Gandalf.

"Well, this is the same Gandalf. And he wouldn't hurt anyone."

"Why's he here?" Frerin whined through his fingers.

"Oh, for goodness sakes, we have not the time for this!" Gandalf muttered, staring pointedly at Kíli.

His gut burning with curiosity and growing fear, Kíli nodded and swallowed almost every instinct he had. "Come on, Frerin."

With one final, worried look at Gandalf, he turned and carried the tiny dwarfling into the kitchen. He was straining his ears so hard to catch just a snippet of what Gandalf and Bilbo were saying that he could hear the smacking, snuffling sound of Bodin sucking his fingers.

As soon as Kíli and Frerin were out of earshot, Bilbo took Gandalf's arm and ushered him into the drawing room. "Sit down, sit down. My dear Gandalf, what on earth has happened to you?"

"I do not have the time to explain it to you, Bilbo, we have precious little time to waste. The nine have risen, I am not certain that I have completely outrun them."

"The nine?" Bilbo repeated blankly.

"We must be swift; you are not safe here."

"What on earth do you mean?" Bilbo spluttered.

"They have been seen in the Shire, disguised as riders in black," Gandalf said hurriedly. "We have barely the time to-"

There was another knock on the door.

Gandalf's eyes hardened and he seized Bilbo's shoulder, hissing in a barely audible voice. "You have bags, pre-packed emergency bags?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"Wake them up, wake them all up," Gandalf muttered quickly, his eyes darkening as the door knocked again. "Slowly, quietly. Leave out the back and stay out of sight, make for Rivendell."

"Rivendell?" Bilbo hissed, looking frantically at the door. "Gandalf, there are children here, _little_ children, they are too young to run to Rivendell in the middle of the night! And what are these riders you speak of? If they are as dangerous as your eyes tell me that they are we will not stand a chance!"

Gandalf's lips pursed. "Go to the kitchen. Tell Kíli and Frerin that they must be _silent._ Stop anyone from entering the hall in sight of the door. Then hide yourself, Bilbo, and do not come out until I call for you. Go. _Go!"_

Bilbo bustled into the kitchen, his heart banging against his ribs. He put a single finger to his lips, silencing Kíli's murmurs to Frerin. Then he whispered in Kíli's ear. "Go to the Redhead Room, keep everyone silent and keep them inside."

"Is everything-"

"Go, Kíli." Bilbo kissed his son on the forehead and smiled weakly, before kissing the end of Frerin's nose. "Now."

With one final, concerned look at Bilbo, Kíli slipped into of the hall without a sound. Bilbo scurried after him, turning right in time to catch Fíli, who was stepping out of the bedroom door.

"No, Fíli!" Bilbo put his hand on the dwarf's chest, watching the mild concern in his blue eyes deepen to fear. Keeping his voice as calm as he could, Bilbo pushed his step-son back. "Stay where you are, keep silent, all of you."

"Kíli-"

"Is fine. Now get inside, close the door, and don't make a sound."

A cold, rasping voice travelled down the hall, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

"Shire… Baggins…"

"You will find no Bagginses here!" Gandalf snapped.

Bilbo sped up, keeping his footsteps noiseless as he hurried past his own bedroom, spotting Bofur exiting the furthest bedroom down the hall, where most of the adult dwarves were staying. Once he had convinced Bofur, Gimli and Dwalin to stay in their respective rooms, he snuck back towards the front hall, through the drawing room to better hear what Gandalf was saying.

"We were told that Bagginses lived here," the cold voice hissed, "the Bagginses of Erebor. We will reward-"

A sudden craving tugged Bilbo's hands towards his pocket. He fingered the golden ring, and the cold, hissing voice grew louder.

"They are here!"

Gandalf's voice boomed back. "No!"

Bilbo jumped, and he felt the blood drain from his face. Gandalf's instructions flooded back to him, and he darted to the large wardrobe that stood by the desk. He clambered inside, squeezing among the old cloaks, coats, knick-knacks and debris that had been shoved into it. He could hardly fit inside, but he managed to pull the door to. Feeling like a child who had been left with the worst hiding place in a game of hide and seek, Bilbo closed his eyes and listened.

"They are not here," Gandalf was saying, "I don't know who they told you, but they were wrong. I do not know where they are."

"Lies," the voice hissed, "do not lie to me, mortal."

"I do not lie!" Gandalf's voice raised. "Begone from this place!"

There was a pause, and then…

" _Olórin!"_

The blood in Bilbo's veins froze. The stranger's voice still sounded like a hiss, but it was as loud as a scream. He did not know what 'Olórin' meant, but the reaction from Gandalf was immediate.

"Begone!" Gandalf roared, and there was an odd, soaring sort of sound. "You are not welcome here! You will leave this land, and you will _not_ come back!"

A loud, screech rang through the air and chilled Bilbo's bones. Despite himself, Bilbo began to tremble, and his fists clenched around his father's old coat. The ring was still tight against his skin, and his fingers burned with the desire to put it on, but his protective instincts and the sheer terror coursing through his entire body stopped him.

There was a great bellow from Gandalf, words that Bilbo could neither distinguish or understand, and another shriek, another ear-stabbing, soul-piercing cry, and Bilbo closed his eyes. Once again, he felt like a child, but now it was not a feeling of disgruntled humiliation. Now he felt small and afraid and alone. There was another yell from the wizard, and a shudder ran down Bilbo's spine. There came a strangled squawk from the stranger, and then the sound of horse hooves thundering against the ground.

Silence fell, and for a few moments Bilbo hardly dared to breathe. Then, heavy footsteps strode through the house and Gandalf barked out. "Bilbo!"

His hand trembling, Bilbo pushed open the closet door and poked his head out. "What…is going on?"

Gandalf looked, if possible, more fearful, ragged and tired than he had before. "I will explain everything, my dear Bilbo, I swear it, but I have not bought us more than a day – in fact I fear it will be less than that. We must act, and quickly. You must trust me, Bilbo."

Bilbo paused, then nodded. "What must we do?"

"Gather your family and your belongings – but only what you need – we must make for Rivendell at first light. It would be wise to alert the Tooks and the Brandybucks – since the riders knew that you came from Erebor they likely know of your family's political status in the mountain. They may be targeted as well, particularly if you simply vanish, which is exactly what we must do."

"That still leaves an awful lot of people here that we care about-"

"Who will not be touched. As long as there is no incentive for the riders to stay, they shall likely leave the Shire-folk alone, and I have sent word to the rangers – their presence will be doubled by the morrow. Besides, there is nothing that you could do to help here if you stayed. Tell only those that you must, say that you left for the Blue Mountains. Say there was an emergency that required your attendance."

Bilbo nodded slowly, but then he looked up at the wizard. "Gandalf, there are innocent people in Ered Luin, we have family there-"

"And they are much better defended than the Shire are. I would be surprised if the nine could even find the door."

Bilbo closed his eyes. "Gandalf… our friends, our family here… They have been through so much with us, so much for us. We cannot simply disappear on them, we cannot."

Even with his eyes closed Bilbo could feel Gandalf staring at him. When the wizard spoke, it was with the softest voice that he had used all night. "Bilbo, I am afraid I can think of no other choice."

The hobbit took another slow, deep breath and hardened his heart. "Sam. Will Sam be safe, or would he be safer with us?"

"Safe is a relative term," Gandalf said slowly, "but given his proclivity for following wherever the Bagginses go, I think he ought to be informed. But Bilbo, we _must_ leave the moment that dawn breaks. Daylight is our ally, but its reach is not impenetrable."

"Right…" Bilbo closed his weary eyes. "Inform the others, gather our packs, ensure Eyja has not stolen all of the dried fruit, send Kíli and Frodo to the Tooks and the Gamgees, prepare to leave in-" he glanced at the clock on the wall. "-four hours. Four hours… We were to be here another four _weeks_ …"

"I am sorry, Bilbo." Gandalf patted the hobbit's shoulder. "Truly, I am."

Bilbo's mouth twitched into a half smile. "You missed a tremendous party last week. It really could have done with your fireworks, though. Take a seat, Gandalf, you look exhausted."

Without waiting for an answer, he scurried towards the nearest bedroom – the guest room in which the adult dwarves were sleeping. On his way past he popped his head into the library and beckoned a dark eyed Gimli to follow him. They knocked softly on the door of the bedroom and slipped inside.

Thorin, Bofur, Bifur, Ori and Nori were all wide awake. They appeared confused, but not even Ori looked as utterly shaken as Bilbo felt. The young Dragonslayer had grown much in the past two decades, and not just in regards to his beard.

Every single one of them was holding a weapon.

"That was Gandalf," Bilbo tried to keep his voice light and even, but he was trembling from head to foot. "And he advises that we, uh, that we leave at dawn."

"What?" Thorin growled, his eyes growing dark with a look that Bilbo had come to learn meant concern.

"We heard 'im talking to someone," Bofur interrupted Bilbo's answer. "But couldn't make out the words."

"Well, it was, um, a rider, he said. I do not know what sort of rider or where he hailed from but Gandalf seemed… concerned… and he seems to think it necessary that we leave."

"We shall see about that," Thorin snarled. "The King of Erebor will not be chased away by a horseman in the night."

Bilbo knew better than to protest as Thorin strode past him, his dressing gown swaying like a cape behind him. The hobbit watched the king march up to Gandalf, who had not gone to sit down at all and was standing a few feet away.

Bilbo watched Thorin's protest die on his lips.

"Gandalf," the dwarf muttered. "You are hurt."

"It is of little consequence now, and nothing compared to what will be should you not follow my advice."

Thorin went very pale, and his jaw hardened. "Very well. Bifur, Bofur, Nori, fetch the packs and check they are fully supplied. Ori, the pantry-"

"I'm on my way," Ori sniffed, shuffling towards Bilbo's food supplies in fluffy pink slippers.

"No lights, if you can help it!" Gandalf called softly after him. "I believe that the rider was banished for now, but one cannot be too careful, others may be on the way."

"This rider you speak of…" Thorin let the question hang in the air.

"Is like nothing you have ever faced before. The threat he poses is akin to that of Smaug, and he is thrice more wicked."

If Bilbo had been in the mood for a little laugh, he would have pointed out that his brother-in-law looked rather green around the gills, but his mouth was dry and laughing was the last thing he wanted to do.

Frodo was in the next room. He had to break the news to Frodo next.

 _"Bilbo…" Frodo murmured, staring into his coffee._

 _"If you're going to ask for advice about hangovers, my dear boy, I would remind you that you challenged three much older, more physically adept beings to a drinking game, and that I therefore have no sympathy for you."_

 _Frodo snorted quietly, raising his slightly ill-looking face towards Bilbo with a dopey smile. "That's not what I was going to say. Though it wouldn't go amiss."_

 _Bilbo smiled and took the mug of coffee from his nephew, replacing it with milk thistle tea. "Trust me, that is what you should be drinking now. So, what's on your mind?"_

 _"I don't really know," Frodo said. "I mean to say that I'm not really sure what I want anymore."_

 _"In what way?"_

 _"What I want to do with my life. Where… where I want to be."_

 _Ah. Bilbo had been expecting this. "You wish to stay in the Shire when we return to Erebor?"_

 _"No!" Frodo said quickly, but then he slumped slightly in his chair. "But… at the same time, yes. I don't know."_

 _"I understand the feeling," Bilbo assured him with a smile and a squeeze of his arm. "And you are old enough to make up your own mind now. I would advise talking to Kíli. No one knows better than he, after all."_

 _Frodo was hasty to reply. "I don't intend on doing anything rash, Uncle. Erebor is my home, just as much as Bag End and I promised Bolin that I'd bring him a little of the party back-"_

 _Bilbo laughed. "Don't worry, Frodo. You have a month to decide what it is you'd like to do. Of course, I would love it if you remained living with us, but I meant what I said last night. You are a grown hobbit now, and I am proud of you."_

 _Frodo blushed, but he smiled and leant against Bilbo for a long moment._

Well, this was not exactly a month, nor was it a decision, at least on Frodo's behalf. Bilbo sighed heavily as he walked to Frodo's bedroom door. He could not help but remember the day they had last told the Shire they would be leaving sooner than anticipated.

 _Kíli stood in front of the entire Shire with tears in his eyes, and Bilbo held little Frodo tightly. "The first thing that I must say, the one thing that truly matters, is thank you. Thank you for everything each and every one of you has done – for more than twenty years now. This is my home, but that's only because you made it so. In fighting with us the other day you gave more than I would ever have asked you to, and I love you all dearly for it." Kíli's tears fell freely, and Bilbo shed tears of his own. "But I have to go."_

 _As expected, uproar arose at his comment. It was utterly justified – these people had just lost loved ones to keep Kíli safe in his home, but Bilbo's son was not yet done._

 _"I don't want to, goodness knows I don't! But if I stay here, trouble will follow me again. I won't – can't – put you in this sort of danger again. I can't do that…" Kíli shook his head and swallowed, clearly struggling to get the words out._

There are two sorts of people who cry in public _, Dís would tell Bilbo one warm night in summer,_ the very weak, and the very strong.

 _In hindsight, Bilbo was certain that his son fell in the latter category._

 _Kíli cleared his throat. "You have protected me for twenty years and you have given so much to do so, so please let me protect you, too. I cannot bear this, what has happened. If I stay here, others may come, angrier and more dangerous and I know that we cannot go through this again. I do not want to go, but I don't have a choice."_

 _The quiet that fell over the crowd was broken by quiet sniffles and sobs from various folk across the field. Even Lobelia and Otho Sackville-Baggins looked mildly moved._

 _"But we don't want you to go. That was why Mama died, so you can stay!" May Gamgee called in a wavering voice._

 _"I know," Kíli nodded, trying to smile at the distraught girl. "But moreover she died to keep the Shire safe, and I have to do whatever I can to do that too. This is my sacrifice for you."_

 _"Your sacrifice?" Otho sneered, all sympathy gone from his face. "What exactly are you sacrificing? You've made a mess and you're running away before it's all-"_

 _"Home, Otho." Kíli interrupted quietly. "I'm giving up my home. It was all I wanted throughout most of the journey – to return to the Shire, to my family, my friends… This is where my heart is, where I belong, but I cannot stay here. I cannot put you through this again."_

 _"So we won't ever see you again?" Fatty Bolger called up in a choked, mournful voice._

 _"I wouldn't say that," Kíli smiled weakly at the boy. "I'll be visiting, of that I'm sure."_

 _"Five years." Hugo's voice called out strongly across the field. "You'll go no more than five years in a row without visiting us or so help me we'll keep you in the Lockholes at Michel Delving!"_

 _Even as he laughed softly, Kíli looked to his mother. Dís smiled as she spoke. "I'm sure that we'll be able to manipulate that politically and practically if we put our minds to it. You'll be sick of travelling by the time you're one hundred, my boy."_

 _Kíli nodded, smiling with a quivering lip as he turned back to the crowd. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I truly, truly am. But this is for the best."_

Quite frankly, Bilbo was tired of having to break his family's hearts for 'the best' and 'the greater good'. Not for the first (nor last) time, he wished that Kíli could have just been a lost merchant's son, or even a peasant's boy. It would all be far simpler if he were not part of the most powerful dwarven family west of Rhûn.

 _But this isn't Kíli's fault,_ a voice whispered in his head, _not this time. It's your fault. Your fault, and the fault of your precious…_

"Bilbo."

The hobbit shook his head vigorously and looked up at Gandalf, who was frowning down at him.

"I'm sorry," Bilbo stammered. "I was just… thinking. Gandalf, if I left now... If I took it with me and I went to Rivendell on my own, they would follow me, wouldn't they? They would leave the others alone?"

The impossible occurred as Gandalf's eyes grew sadder. "Oh, Bilbo…"

"Because I can do it," Bilbo mumbled firmly. "I can trek that far, I can fight if I have to and no one will see me, even without the-"

"They will not leave the others alone," Gandalf grieved. "For the king and his most valued lords and ladies are an unspeakable prize for those who would cripple the kingdom of Erebor. This is much bigger than you, Bilbo Baggins."

A tiny part of Bilbo felt glad that his offer had been squashed so soon, but a wave of guilt and fear drowned it in heartbeats. He knocked on Frodo's door almost absently, and it opened before his knuckles had left the wood. Two large, red-rimmed eyes and a mess of scruffy black hair burst out of the room as his nephew grabbed his arm.

"Bilbo, what's going on, what's happening? Was that Gandalf?"

Dís stood behind Frodo with a hand on his shoulder and a face as pale as her brother's. "We are leaving, aren't we?"

A lump rose in Bilbo's throat. "Perhaps… perhaps you should wait in the dining room. I'll explain everything when everyone is there. Don't turn on any lights, and I suppose we should not boil the kettle either, lest the fire smoke…"

Frodo licked his lips as if he wanted to protest, but Dís took him by the arm. "Come now, Frodo."

Scarce ten minutes later, almost everyone in Bag End was crammed into the dining room in various states of sleepiness. Frerin had fallen asleep again, thanks to Kíli's storytelling, so he and Bodin were still snuggled up in bed. Eyja, too, had been left in her bed – no one could see any point in waking or scaring the little ones when preparations could be done without them.

Gandalf cleared his throat, and the slight murmurings died down.

"I am sorry to come to you in such a state, at such a time, and I am sorry that I must tell you of the danger that faces you. There is a story that must be told for you to fully understand what is going on, but I have not the time to tell it, so a true explanation must wait for now. What you need to know right now is that we must leave Bag End when dawn breaks. There are enemies that will pursue us, and we must make haste, but I believe that we can reach Rivendell in one piece."

"Do you?" Bróin murmured, locking eyes with Gandalf. "Or do you think that we don't have any other choice?"

Blotches of red coloured Bofin's pale face. "Bróin-"

"Your brother is right," Gandalf spoke heavily. "If we make for Rivendell, we have a chance. A friend of mine awaits us in Bree, if we meet him our chances are greatly increased. But if you remain here, and the servants of Mordor can tie you in any way to Erebor, you will be slain."

"Slain?" Orla sat up, her face unsticking from the table and her twin waking up with a jolt. "All… all of us?"

"I am afraid so, my dear child," Gandalf mourned. "But, I know of the enemies that we face and I know how to arm you to fight them-"

"We need no more convincing, Gandalf," Thorin said firmly. "Tell us only what we must do."

"Remain calm, banish your fears and prepare to depart. Kíli, go to the house of Adalgrim Took – _do not let yourself be seen_ – and tell your… siblings to kindly meet us at the stables at daybreak. If they would, they should come with us - those with titles are at greater risk. Frodo, if you could waken Samwise Gamgee."

The two dark haired, hard eyed boys that Bilbo had raised stood up with strong jaws and well-hidden fear, and pride and sorrow began a game of throw and catch with the weary hobbit's heart.

"Gandalf," Bilbo murmured as everyone moved around him, scrambling to get ready. "Can I ask you one question?"

"I think there is time enough for that," Gandalf nodded.

"The rider… he said something that I did not quite understand. What does Olórin mean? It sounded like a spell or…" Bilbo trailed off as Gandalf closed his eyes.

A tear was sliding down Gandalf's cheek.

"Olórin," the wizard said, "was my name."

 **Well, I hope you enjoyed that chapter, even if it was a wee bit on the sad side! It was actually very hard to write our lovely Gandalf in such a state :'( Please do let me know what you think – I'm always eager for feedback and keen to improve my writing.**

 **I am aiming to update at least once a fortnight and preferably once a week, but while I'm finally settled I am about to enter my third year of uni so I can't make any promises. Either way, I'll do my best to get it up as soon as I possibly can for you!**

 **Thank you so much for reading, your interest and support means more than you know :D**

 **Have a great day :)**


	4. Chapter 4: The Dark of the Night

**Hello everyone.**

 **First and foremost, I would like to express my sincerest apologies for the appalling delay between updates, especially after proposing a wishful schedule of once a fortnight. There is no sarcasm in this statement, I promise, just pure, genuine apology. Since I last spoke to you all I have had so much on, including issues of both physical and mental health and an enormous amount of work for my third year of university. I am not telling you this as an excuse, but because I view writing the Last, The Lost, The Least as a commitment to you, as much as it is a pleasure for myself, and I believe that you deserve to know why such a gap has occurred. Especially with how amazingly, wonderfully supportive most of you are. I appreciate it so much, and I appreciate your patience.**

 **I don't think this chapter will necessarily make up for the gap – it is neither my best nor my longest – but I'm fairly happy with it, and hope that it helps you get back into the swing of things.**

 **As much as I'd like to promise this won't happen again, I can't do that. My workload is insane at the moment, but I'm getting better at juggling it. What I can promise is that I will never quit this story. Not until I have brought it to an end that is satisfying for both writer and reader. I'm not giving up on Kíli Baggins, and I hope that you won't either.**

 **As ever, I apologise for any typos, and hope that you enjoy the chapter.**

 **With all the love in the world, please read, enjoy and review.**

 **Chapter Four # The Dark of the Night #**

Every time that he blinked, he saw the inside of a cage. With every slip of his concentration, his subconscious threw him back into the pits of Mordor and under the thumb of the foulest of Sauron's servants. There was shame as well, broiling in his sunken stomach whenever he thought of his blunder into the same trap that dragged the wretched creature he had been tracking into torture at Minas Morgul.

One moment of misdirected concentration, a blow to the head, and then Gandalf the Grey of the Istari had been rendered helpless as a babe in arms. He had posed a pretty prize for the orcs that restrained him so thoroughly, and he had heard whispers of the Lord Sauron himself expressing pleasure at the wizard's capture. More than once he half wished for the dark lord to show himself, to numb the frustration of knowing that he could defeat every single one of his captors, had he his staff, sword, or even just the use of his hands. But Sauron had never appeared, and his hands had remained bound with wire-like rope from his forearms to his fingertips.

Flexing his scared wrists, Gandalf tightened his grip on the staff that Radagast had gifted him, but the smooth wood did little to bring him back to the present. It was only a reminder of the shards of his own staff, swept away by the hot winds of Mordor. A grim smile tugged at one corner of his mouth at the thought of an orc felled by an infected splinter, but it could not chase away the 'what if's that still sought to plague him. It did not matter what would have happened if Radagast had not found him before the orcs did, because that had not happened. Likewise, it was unimportant what would have come to pass if the Nazgûl had garnered all the information that they needed on dear old Bilbo before Gandalf was able to escape. It did not matter, he told himself, but it still irked him, the oddity in his hazy timeline.

Seven years. It had taken Gandalf seven years to escape from Mordor. To his knowledge, Gollum had been captured before he had, but he doubted the creature would have lasted a single year under torment. Not without his Precious in any case. Perhaps he was mistaken, and Gollum had been captured later, or had held out for longer than expected. Perhaps it had taken the dark lord a long while to interpret his new prisoner's screeches. It might have been that Gollum was not deemed important for a time, when they had captured such a powerful prisoner as Gandalf. The wraith of a creature could have been forgotten about for years, lost and recaptured, or perhaps he had been in league with the enemy all along.

No story made sense, but Gandalf had not had time to search for proof or evidence. He had escaped barely a week before the Ringwraiths rode forth from Minas Morgul, and from the moment he guessed their task it had become a desperate race.

His enemy had won the first stage – when Gandalf reached Erebor he had learnt that a rider in black had preceded him. An envoy, from the 'Great Lord of Mordor', asking for the Bagginses. And for the absent king.

He had known then that he must use every single drop of energy clinging to his wasted body and fly. He had to reach the Shire before the enemy. Balin had all but threatened him, demanding that the wizard rest, or at least see a healer, but there had not been time to waste.

If he had accepted the invitation, if only for an hour, he would likely have arrived to find a massacre.

"Gandalf," a light, lilting voice tugged him from his thoughts, and he looked down at Pippin.

"Peregrin Took," he smiled wryly. "How can I help you?"

"I was just wondering if you wanted this," Pippin stood up in his pony's saddle to pass Gandalf a cloth wrapped package. There was an odd sort of look about his face, an innocence that was, for once, unfeigned. His smile was small and meek, and his eyes showed no trick or glimmer of trouble. It was rather uncommon, from the wizard's memory, of the young hobbit who so idolised Fíli and Kíli.

Gandalf frowned slightly and unwrapped the package, and the frown instantly melted into a smile. It was a cinnamon bun, Pippin's favourite treat, if he remembered rightly. And it was the twenty third time that day that a hobbit had given, offered or forced him to take an item of food. They had eaten lunch but an hour ago.

"Thank you, my dear Pippin, but wouldn't you rather snack on this yourself?" Gandalf offered it back, but Pippin smiled and shook his head.

"Oh no, I have twelve in my bag. Nana packed them for me, for the road. Merry says they'll only last me a day, but they're only at their best for a few days. Then they go stale," he said. "You take it."

"Pippin, come play catch with us!" Eyja called from a few ponies back.

"We must make haste, my dear dwarfling," Gandalf reminded her heavily. "We do not have time for catch today."

"But Pip and I'll tell you a story," Merry said. "C'mon, Pippin."

"Right you are, Merry," Pippin sung, and let his pony fall back.

Another pony quickly replaced the tween's, and Bilbo smirked. "So, how much food have you been given today?"

"Oh, enough to feed a small army, I am sure," smiled Gandalf, wrapping the bun again and tucking it into his saddle bag. "It is very kind of you all. Do I truly look so awful?"

"Well, if truth is indeed what you seek, then I must say yes," Bilbo's tone was light and conversational, and Gandalf loved the halfling all the more for it. "It reminds me of my first trip to Lake-town, when I was skin and bone myself. The dwarves were in and out of my room every hour or so, feeding me up. Not that I minded, of course. It was the first time I'd had a decent amount of food in weeks. But, I have to say, you do look worse."

"Looks are not everything, but indeed, I have been of better health. Still, I will survive, if only thanks to the nutrition your kin provide. Though I fear my looks may have frightened your youngest dwarfling rather a bit."

Bilbo laughed. "Frerin will warm to you, I am sure of it. He is a shy little thing."

Glancing over his shoulder, Gandalf looked at the group behind him. They were moving fast, for a group of so many, with so many young ones, but it was not fast enough. Their pace had slowed since dawn.

"Cutting cross country should take some time off our journey, Gandalf, as well as keeping our route unknown." There was a little concern seeping into Bilbo's voice now. "Our kith and kin know that we had to leave in a hurry, and they know that we'll be back when we can be. They also know to keep torches burning, in case of any black-robed callers that overstay their welcome. As for talking to strangers, well. That is not a very hobbitish thing to do, wont as we are to gossip."

"Yes, I do think staying off of the road would be best."

"Are you going to tell us what is pursuing us?" Bilbo lowered his voice. "You said you would not speak of it in the dark."

"And I would not tell it where there are little ears to hear," Gandalf said sharply.

"Will you tell it at all? Or would you have us run from a nameless fear? The children are appeased by 'because Gandalf said so', yes, but those older than the twins are not children anymore. They are afraid, Gandalf. We are all afraid. And we deserve to know why we are afraid."

Gandalf glanced over his shoulder at where Pippin was laughing with his cousin. He closed his eyes. It felt, someone, that his task had become the bringer of ill-fate. The destroyer of innocence.

"They have seen horror before, Gandalf," Bilbo said quietly.

"Very well." Gandalf gazed at the sky. "If we ride hard, now, until dusk is almost upon us, we can make camp while it is still light. Then, I will tell you call I need to know."

The entire group sped up, and soon they were making a pace that Gandalf could hardly have hoped for. It seemed that the wolves were in their element, and Gandalf could not help but wonder as a three-legged wolf baring a full-grown hobbit outstripped his own horse.

Miles slipped by and dusk grew nearer, and finally Gandalf called them to a stop beneath a cluster of trees. The ponies were frothing at the mouth, and staggered to a halt, and the panting wolves flopped straight to the floor, rider and all.

The exhausted travellers set up their camp with ease, though to their luck Dwalin's children had both fallen asleep. Bodin was sent to watch them and start the dinner with Orla and Ola, and the others gathered around Gandalf.

The wizard sighed and spoke in a low voice. "How many of you know the tale of the dark Lord Sauron, who plagued this world in ages past?"

"Fíli tells it to us," Vinca said. "Every time we go to Rivendell, we visit the sword and the mural. It's become a tradition. Why?"

Gandalf took a deep breath. "You all know then, of the Ring of Power?"

"That was thing that gave Sauron his strength, was it not? It was lost when Isildur cut it from his hand." Frodo's bright eyes darkened. "Wasn't it, Gandalf?"

"It was lost," Gandalf closed his own eyes. "But, it has been found. And it is currently sitting in Bilbo's pocket."

Every head swivelled to look at the hobbit, who in turn blinked and looked down at his waistcoat. The colour drained from Bilbo's face. "What? No? No! Really? Ah. Alright. Well. In that case." Dís put a hand on her husband's arm and Bilbo stopped talking.

"Unfortunately, the creature Gollum, from whom Bilbo acquired the ring, knew Bilbo's name and where he hailed from. I searched everywhere for Gollum, but I was delayed by the enemy, held prisoner for a time. When I escaped, I learnt that the Black Riders had set forth. I knew then, that my suspicions were correct. Bilbo's ring was the One Ring, and the Riders were aware of it."

"What are these riders?" Thorin interrupted. "You spoke of a foe more terrible than Smaug."

"They are Ringwraiths. They were once men, but they were corrupted by Sauron. They inspire terror wherever they go, and they use it as a weapon. Their breath is poison, their aim is deadly, and their leader is known as the Witch-King. They are drawn to the ring, and ever seek to return it to their master. If they find you," his eyes fell on Bilbo. "They will kill you. But your political importance is such that they will not leave the rest of you in peace, should Bilbo go ahead or… fall behind."

There was a long moment of quiet.

"Well, that all sounds awful," Nelly said. "So what's the plan?"

"We will make for Bree," Gandalf said immediately. "I have a friend waiting for us there, and he will escort the rest of you to Rivendell while I ride ahead with Bilbo. He knows of how to fight these beasts and his skill is great."

"You may tell us how to fight these beasts," Dwalin snarled, "before you entrust our lives to a stranger."

Despite himself, Gandalf smiled. "This friend is not a stranger, my dear Dwalin, and even he cannot truly defeat them. What we can do, is disrobe them. Should you destroy their helm, with fire, for instance, they must return to Mordor so that Sauron can give them another physical form." It was a simplistic explanation, but it would have to do. Gandalf was too weary to try and explain the intricacies of the wraiths.

Nelly snorted with laughter, and everyone stared at her. "Forgive me. I'm just imagining an awfully evil wraith popping back to Mordor. 'Hello, Mister Dark Lord Sir, I'm sorry, can I have another robe please? Lost the last one.'"

"It isn't funny, Nelly," Pearl frowned heavily.

Nelly's eyes darkened slightly. "Our situation isn't funny, no, but if we all sit around acting like the end of times is coming that won't help anything either. Gandalf, you said that they feed on fear? Well, I won't be scared of them."

"You have a brave heart, child," Gandalf said. "I hold hope that it will endure. But the Nazgûl can make the very bravest hearts quake."

Silence fell again, and Gandalf closed his eyes once more. Dark was falling now, and their path was growing more dangerous. He had not envisioned fleeing with so large a group. Thirty-three, in all. To leave any behind would be a death sentence.

"Dinner's ready!" Bodin called suddenly, breaking the quiet and ushering in a cheerier part of the evening. The hobbits led the way into lighter conversation, and though Dwalin and Thorin brooded, for the most part the company kept their spirits up.

Once again, the task fell to Gandalf to break the joy. "We should get some rest, and set up a watch. We cannot linger for long."

Gandalf did not sleep a wink. All night he sat awake, sucking on his new pipe (pressed into his hand that morning by a chattering Kíli) and staring into the darkness. Not even an owl disturbed the night, and when dawn broke and he woke his companions there was naught to see but mist.

They rode hard the next day and covered good ground. Their journey was more subdued than it could have been, and the littler children fussed now and then, but as the moon rose to its full height on the second evening, Gandalf thought that he might catch a few moments' rest. Dwalin and Dís were on watch, and their eyes were keen and sharp.

The wizard closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, banishing the fragments of memory that assaulted his weary mind. He soon drifted into a sleep of murky half-dreams and disembodied voices.

And then he was woken by a scream.

He dragged himself into a sitting position and looked around with bleary eyes as more and more screams broke out, but their fire had been extinguished and there was no light to see with. He grabbed his staff, sending light out over the campsite.

It was chaos. Three black riders had caught up with them, and the company had scattered like chickens fleeing a fox. It was exactly what the Ringwraiths would want, and though the older members of the company were putting up a fight they had naught but their usual weapons. Weapons that would be no use against such evil. Before Gandalf was even on his feet he saw a long, dark sword swing down towards little Frerin.

The moment lingered, and the boy did not move. He just stared with wide, terror-filled eyes and watched the oncoming blade.

Even as Gandalf moved to aim his staff at the Nazgul, he knew it would be too late. He knew that he was too far away, in too awkward a position to stop death coming down on Dwalin's son.

And then a blur knocked the child out of the way, and Fíli cried out in pain. In the same instant, one of the wolves leapt at the Ringwraith and seized its arm, ripping and tearing at the fabric of its sleeve.

Gandalf managed to send a beam of energy from his staff, blasting the Ringwraith and setting its clothes ablaze. It shrieked, and immediately turned its horse away, but the noise was nothing compared to the wailing of the youngest children. Now on his feet, Gandalf bellowed the first spell that came to his mind.

The air around them lit up as a whip of flames was cast from the end of his staff, and Gandalf swung it with all his might. He hit his mark. The fire wrapped around the throat of the second Ringwraith, and Gandalf wrenched the beast off its horse. Like its fellow, the flaming creature fled. A trio of wolves leapt at the riderless horse, and dragged it down to the floor. The creature shrieked and whinnied, but not for long.

"Gandalf!" Frodo cried, tugging on Bilbo's arm. The older hobbit was squeezing his eyes shut, and his hands were clenched in fists. In his pockets. The final horse had been felled by Thorin, Dís and Kíli, but its rider was bearing down upon the two hobbits. "Gandalf, help!"

Clenching his teeth, Gandalf began to run, tripping over bags and bedrolls. He raised his staff once more, bellowed a slightly more refined spell, and sent a beam of light straight at the creature, destroying its robes immediately.

An eerie silence fell, broken only by soft moans and a child's sobs, coming from the centre of the camp.

"Is everybody here?" Gandalf barked, conjuring enough light to illuminate their entire campsite. "Speak quickly, is anybody missing?"

"Bodin?" Bofur called, his voice breaking slightly. "Orla, Ola?"

There was a terrifyingly long silence, and Gandalf threw his gaze over the others. The hobbits who had run at first were all back and accounted for, and he could see Frerin beneath Fíli in the middle of what had been their camp.

Beneath Fíli?

"They're probably hiding," Nelly's voice shook. She was holding onto Bróin's arm, but who was comforting who was not quite clear.

The wolves let out howls, and a pair dove off into the darkness.

"Fíli?" At first, there was just trepidation in Kíli's voice. Then, there was panic. "Fíli? Fee?"

"I'm alright," Fíli groaned, slowly pushing himself up. "The wretched beast got me right in the back, but I'm in my shiny shirt."

"What do you mean?" Gandalf asked brusquely, his own fear growing as Kíli seemed to relax. If Fíli had been struck with a Morgul blade, a fancy piece of clothing would not save him.

"Fili insists on calling the Mithril coat I gave him a 'shiny shirt.'" Thorin explained impatiently. "We should look for the young ones, if you're not hurt, Fíli."

"Bruised. Maybe deeply, but I'll be fine," Fíli sat up, awkwardly cradling a sobbing Frerin in his arms as he did so.

"Uncle Bofur!"

Gandalf had never been so pleased to see a crying child when Bodin tore out of the darkness behind two wolves, his sisters hot on his heels. The boy crashed into his uncle's side, and Bofur seized all three young ones quickly. Then he looked up at Gandalf, his face pale.

"We're all accounted for," he said.

"We must move. The ponies will have fled, but-"

"They haven't," Esme called in an impressively steady voice. "Well, they did, but the wolves've rounded them all up, they're all here."

"Very well," Gandalf took a deep breath. "Collect your things, quickly, we must go."

"But they're gone," Eyja protested in a quiet, quavering voice. Her arms and legs were locked around her mother, and she looked more afraid than any child should ever be. "You made the bad things go away."

The wizard sighed. "There may be more, my child. We must keep going."

"I don't like it anymore," Frerin whined, reaching towards Dwalin. "Ada, I want to go home! I want to go home!"

"That's what we're trying to do," Dwalin said gruffly, though he took his son from Fíli and clapped a hand on the prince's shoulder. "Thank you, Fíli."

Fíli smiled, though he looked pained and was a little slow in getting to his feet.

"If we make haste, we can make it to the Old Forest by daybreak," Gandalf calculated. "We will rest then – the trees may offer some shelter."

"Shelter?" Paladin said faintly. "In the Old Forest?"

Esme shook her head at her brother and held up two hands, miming a scale. "Nazgûl, Old Forest. Old Forest, Nazgûl. I think the Old Forest will be quite alright."

"The best of a bad situation," Paladin said darkly. "But of course. Lead the way, Gandalf."

Soon, too soon, they were riding again, with naught but what little light the wizard dared risk to guide them.

Gandalf closed his eyes, and saw the inside of a cage.

 **I hope you enjoyed it! I find it quite hard writing from Gandalf's perspective, particularly because we hardly ever see the full extent of his powers, but I hope that I've done our lovely old wizard justice. Even if I haven't been too kind to him.**

 **Thank you so much for reading. The next update will hopefully be sooner rather than later, but as we've proven the only thing I can promise is that as long as I am physically capable, there will still be updates. I promise.**

 **Thanks again for reading! Leave a review if you fancy, and I hope you have a great day/evening/night depending on where you are right now.**


	5. Chapter 5: Room to Breathe

**Hello, everyone! That was a shorter wait, hey? I hope that all of you who celebrate have had a great Christmas, and I hope those who don't have had a great few weeks anyway. Thank you for the lovely response to the last chapter, I hope that you like this one even more!**

 **I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Please do forgive me typos as ever!**

 **Read, enjoy and review!**

 **Chapter Five # Room to Breathe #**

In the darkness beneath the trees, Kíli was suffocating. They had ridden as fast as they could, and they had reached the Old Forest by daybreak, but their rest had been for a few short hours before they were pressed to move on by Thorin, Dwalin and Gandalf. Ever since night had fallen again, Gandalf's staff had been their only source of light. He said it would be unwise to light fires in the forest, even for torches.

Kíli envied the little ones, lifted out of bed by their parents and tucked into the front of ponies without stirring. He would love to be sleeping against Bilbo's chest right now, the way that Frerin was leaning on Dwalin three ponies back in their single file line, but Kíli was almost a hundred years old, less than three months away from being officially of age. More importantly, he was too big, and he would probably knock Bilbo clean off of the pony.

Still, as the night wore on and on it became more and more tempting just to jump slip off Luno and onto Bilbo's pony. Or join Fíli on Sitka's back. Both the wolf and his brother would probably be able to take it. He yawned.

The trees rustled eerily, and in front of him Paladin jumped. Kíli's 'older hobbit brother' had been more alert than a hunted squirrel ever since they reached the forest, and his fingers had been white around the reigns since night fell and the branches began moving without a breeze. As Kíli watched, Paladin shuddered and stood up in his saddle. Kíli sighed and scratched Luno's ears. Over the last twenty-one years, Paladin had developed a habit of checking on each of his children whenever his nerves crept up. They were all grown up now, almost adults themselves, but if anything that had just made Paladin more paranoid.

Well, maybe paranoid was not the right word. Kíli did not think it was any case, and Paladin's coping mechanism was not the unhealthiest he had ever seen. It just broke the dwobbit's heart a little bit.

A whispering sound near Kíli's ear snapped his head to the right. There was nothing there, nothing but the trees. Quashing the crawling feeling in his stomach, Kíli wrapped his fingers through Luno's fur. The wolf looked up at him slightly, and gave a soft whine. Then he let his head drop again. Kíli massaged the wolf's neck. The poor creature was tired too, and rightly so.

Kíli felt his own eyelids begin to droop. The eerie forest maybe be keeping Paladin on his toes, but Kíli just wanted to sleep. The earthy smell of the forest was homely, comforting even, for one who had grown up in the Shire, and if he pretended that the whispers were coming from his friends they were not so frightening. His mind began to drift, and he imagined the sound of faraway singing.

"Oh," Gandalf, who was at the front of their column, just ahead of Paladin, sighed just loud enough for Kíli to hear him. Relief poured through his tone. "Thank goodness." Then he barked loudly enough to wake Kíli entirely. "Quicken the pace! Just for a while now!"

The wizard spurred on his horse, and their line sped up, though the ponies nickered and wolves whined in protest. As they rode, the singing grew louder, and Kíli realised that it was not in his mind at all.

 _"Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! My darling!_

 _Light goes the weather-wind and the feathered starling."_

The voice sounded strong and clear, and something about it made Kíli believe this was a friend. Well, that and the fact that Gandalf was riding towards the sound as fast as his horse would go.

 _"Down along under Hill, shining in the sunlight,_

 _Waiting on the doorstep for the cold starlight,_

 _There my pretty lady is, River-woman's daughter,_

 _Slender as the willow-wand, clearer than the water."_

Louder and louder the singing grew, and Kíli's curiosity was fully piqued by the time they entered a spacious clearing. Gandalf drew his horse to a halt, and their company came to a faltering stop.

The wizard took breath, then called out. "Master Bombadil, is that you?"

The singing stopped rather abruptly, and then it picked up again, coming closer and closer and closer.

 _"Old Tom Bombadil water-lilies bringing_

 _Comes hopping home again. Who can hear him singing?_

 _Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! and merry-o!_

 _Calling out to Bombadil, are you Bombadillo?"_

All of a sudden, a man leapt out from the tree on the other side of the clearing. Thorin and Dwalin's hands sprang to their weapons, but Kíli's instincts were still distinctly more hobbitish, and he studied the man curiously. He wore a bright blue jacket, and worn yellow boots, and he had a basket over his wrist, brimming with lilies.

When the man's sharp eyes fell on Gandalf, his grin broadened. When he spoke, there was a lyricism about his voice, and he kept the rhythm of his song. "O! Ho! Olórin, t'was you that was a-calling! Come to visit Tom and his sweet Goldberry this morning?"

"Tom Bombadil," Gandalf smiled, shaking his head and dismounting. The wizard dwarfed the man, but Tom Bombadil was taller than even Dwalin. "It is good to see you old friend. Though, I wouldn't quite call this 'morning.'"

"It is the hour past midnight," Tom winked, "what most folk call the morning. Though I'll admit it's not the time that most my friends come calling. What brings the young Olórin to my woods at such an hour? Your friends appear a weary lot, and a couple rather sour."

The man nodded at Dwalin, his eyes twinkling, and Kíli smothered a laugh. Sour was indeed a very accurate description of his face. Then something about Tom's words piqued his interest. Young Olórin? How old was this Tom Bombadil, and if he was not a man what was he? Was this the friend that Gandalf had said would be waiting in Bree?

"If we're sour," Dwalin growled, his arm wrapping around Frerin's front like a shield, "it's because our bairns were attacked by devils last night, and we've been riding hard ever since."

Tom Bombadil's brow furrowed, and he looked at Gandalf for a long moment. It appeared almost as though they were conversing thought words or movements, and then Tom gave a gentle smile. "My borders will dispel the foes that hunt you for this evening. Come now, follow Bombadil. To home now I am leading. You're all in need of beds and warmth, and Goldberry is cooking. If what you want is board for night you all can finish looking."

"You are most hospitable, my old friend, thank you," Gandalf bowed so low that his nose grazed his knees, and then turned to look at the others. "Everyone, this is Tom Bombadil, the Master of Wood, Water and Hill. He's offered us a safe place to stay for the night, and I for one will not refuse him. He is an old friend of mine, and there is no safer place than his home."

Dwalin looked as though he would argue for a moment, but at a glance from Thorin (who had been given a pointed look by Dís) he held his tongue, and Kíli was glad. He was too tired for arguments, especially between Gandalf, Dwalin and Thorin. If Gandalf trusted Master Bombadil, so did Kíli.

Thorin gave a sharp nod, and Tom Bombadil sprang back into the trees, singing as he went.

" _Hop along, my little friends, up the Withywindle!_

 _Tom's going on ahead candles for to kindle._

 _Fear neither root nor bough! Tom goes on before you._

 _Hey now! merry dol! We'll be waiting for you!"_

Gandalf mounted his horse once more and followed the strange, singing man, and Kíli nudged Luno to begin walking again. "Just…" he yawned. "Just a little further now, Luno. Just a little further…"

As he spoke, Tom Bombadil's song continued, clear as ever, though it sounded a little further away.

 _"Hey! now! Come hoy now! Not far now to wander._

 _For pained paws and aching hooves salvation is up yonder,_

 _A resting place, a safer place, where Goldberry is waiting._

 _Soon to sleep, and high hay heaps and misery abating."_

Luno's head pricked up slightly, and Kíli felt the wolf speed up just a little. Something about the man's songs seemed to hearten the beasts, dwarves, and hobbits alike. They rode through the darkness for another half-hour, Tom singing all the way, until finally Kíli spotted a light beyond that of Gandalf's staff. They drew closer and closer, until they came to a little house.

Tom Bombadil was standing outside the open door, a warm smile on his face. A welcoming light poured from the open door and spilled around him. "Don't worry, all will fit inside, we can make room for sleeping. My lovely Goldberry is home, and your needs we'll be keeping."

"The floor will be more than enough, Tom," Gandalf said, slipping down off of his horse again. "The mere presence of a roof is a comfort."

"A dozen beds my Goldberry has managed to a-conjure, and we have many blankets more, for every weary wanderer," Tom decreed. A woman slipped out of the door behind him, golden hair rippling over her shoulders and a curious glint in her river green eyes.

"Lady Goldberry," Gandalf bowed low, and then kissed the hand that the lady offered. "It has been too long."

"Indeed, it has, my dear Olórin," she said, with a voice that sounded like music. "Come, friends, refresh yourselves, there is food upon the table. My Tom will lead your steeds to the stable, and see that they are fed and comfortable. Come in."

Kíli slipped off Luno's back and scratched his ears, pressing a kiss to the wolf's snout. Luno licked the dwarf's nose, and then plodded slowly towards Tom. Kíli followed Gandalf into the house, Bilbo and Frodo at his heels. Goldberry led them in single file down the hall, and pointed to a room with a slanting roof and several large basins.

"Please, wash your hands and faces, and if you wish do hang your coats and cloaks in the corner. When you have finished, please come and join us for some food, unless sleep is more appealing." She smiled, and disappeared back down the hall, past the wary dwarves and tired hobbits filling up her corridor.

As they were first in the door, Gandalf, Kíli and Frodo were the first to make it back to the entrance hall. The wizard led the Bagginses into a surprisingly spacious dining room. Kíli's heart leapt at the sight of cream, honeycomb, bread, butter, cheese, herbs and ripe berries all but spilling off of the table.

"How did they make so much food in so little time?" Frodo breathed, glancing between Gandalf and Kíli with wide eyes. "Mister Bombadil was only a few minutes ahead of us, if that!"

Gandalf grinned at Frodo and winked, pulling out a chair and sitting down. Frodo and Kíli exchanged glances and shrugged, before sitting down next to Gandalf. It took a while for everyone to clean up and join them, but there was, to Kíli's surprise, enough space for everyone in the dining room. It was tight, indeed, but everyone fit inside nevertheless. The food was so good that for a long time there was no chatter, but there seemed to be no lack of food.

Maybe these were the Blue Wizards that Gandalf spoke of, all those years ago on their quest, and they were replenishing their table by magic. They did call Gandalf 'Olórin', and Kíli supposed that was a fairly wizard-like thing to do. They did not seem to be elves, though Goldberry was beautiful as any elf-maid that Kíli had ever seen, nor dwarves

Tom Bombadil regaled them with a song of why he was in the forest at one o'clock in the morning.

 _"I had an errand in the woods: gathering water-lilies,_

 _green leaves and lilies white to please my pretty lady,_

 _the last ere the year's end to keep them from the winter,_

 _to flower by her pretty feet till the snows are melted._

 _Each year at summer's end I go to find them for her,_

 _in a wide pool, deep and clear, far down the Withywindle;_

 _there they open first in spring and there they linger latest._

 _By that pool long ago I found the River-daughter,_

 _fair young Goldberry sitting in the rushes._

 _Sweet was her singing then, and her heart was beating!_

 _And that proved well for you- for now I shall no longer_

 _go down deep again along the forest-water,_

 _not while the year is old. Nor shall I be passing_

 _Old Man Willow's house this side of spring-time,_

 _not till the merry spring, when the River-daughter_

 _dances down the withy-path to bathe in the water."_

At some point during the song, Goldberry excused herself with a smile, but by the time Tom finished she had returned. Protesting adamantly against any help from their guests, the couple cleared away the empty plates. Then Goldberry stood at the end of the table beside Eyja, who was looking at her with dream-misted eyes. The lady put a delicate hand on the little dwarfling's shoulder and squeezed it gently.

"Our mattresses and your bedding rolls are laid out over three rooms, and we have blankets on every bed. You will have somewhere safe and sound to rest your heads for the night, and your worries can wait 'til the morrow."

Thorin glanced at Dwalin, and then cleared his throat. "I'm afraid our pursuers-"

Tom Bombadil chuckled. "Old Tom will suffer no dark beings in his land. You're safe as safe can be while you're sleeping in this house."

"They will not find us here," Gandalf nodded at Thorin, a tired smile on his face.

"Are you," Frerin stuck his thumb in his mouth and stared at Tom. "Are you a magical wizard man?"

Tom laughed loudly and shook his head. "I am what I am, young dwarfling."

Frerin considered this for a long moment, and then, to Kíli's surprise, added, "yes, but what am you?"

"Older than the elves and younger than my teeth," he winked, and Frerin giggled.

"That doesn't answer my question," he pointed out meekly.

"No," commented Tom lightly, "it doesn't, does it?"

Frerin gave a shy little smile and his apparent surge in confidence waned. He ducked behind his father's beard, peeking out now and again at their hosts.

Like a herd of exhausted sheep, the group fumbled down the corridor and collapsed into the beds and bedrolls in the rooms that Goldberry directed them to.

"Have peace now," she said gently, "until the morning. Heed no nightly noises. For nothing passes door and window here save moonlight and starlight and the wind of the hill-top. Good night."

Soon, Kíli was asleep beside Fíli – they had once tried to 'top and tail,' as it was known in the Shire, when they had stayed with the Brandybucks, but it had not ended well. Neither dwarf was a particularly still sleeper, and Kíli had been woken in the middle of the night by a sharp kick to his face. In response, his own legs had flailed around, breaking Fíli's nose and then winding his brother. Ever since, sharing a bed or a mattress happened with both dwarves' heads at the same end.

* * *

 _It was hot. So, so hot._

 _Rocks were burning his feet with every step, but Frodo had to keep going. There was ice-cold metal clenched in his hand, and he had to get it to the fire itself. If he did not…_

 _The image of Nelly flashed across his mind, dragged away by an iron hook through her shoulder. He saw Pippin and Merry hauled away by the largest orcs he had ever seen – he saw a familiar, sandy-brown haired man fall to his knees, an arrow in his chest._

 _Frodo fell to his hands and knees, and he saw Gandalf falling down, down, down, into an abyss of fire and darkness. He saw his old friend, Estel of Rivendell wrestle a warg off of a cliff and crash into the waters below. He saw Gimli disappear beneath a crush of armour-clad orcs._

 _He curled his fingers into the hot dirt and dragged himself forward. He had to keep going. He saw Legolas of Mirkwood topple over the edge of a strange battlement. Had to keep going._

 _He saw Sam fall down a black staircase, and lie motionless on the rocks below. Frodo crawled over rock and dust towards the heat, towards the fiery door, and saw Thorin fall before the gates of Erebor. He knew that Erebor, that home, was miles and miles away but he could see it, he could see Dís screaming on her blood-soaked bed, her back arching and her legs splayed at awkward angles. Strange, masked dwarves were pinning her down, and one struck her harshly across the face._

 _Dragging himself to his feet, Frodo tried to run. The door was getting closer, but his running was more of a stagger and he was slowing down. But he was not staggering as much as Bróin when his image appeared in Frodo's mind. His 'cousin' was trying to flee, but the back of his leg was hanging open, and blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth. An axe wielding orc was bearing down upon him, but Bróin was limping too slowly to escape and closing his eyes could not stop Frodo from seeing the axe fall._

 _Sobbing, Frodo stumbled through the fiery door and collapsed onto a long, thin bridge. He saw Vinca fighting four orcs at once, fighting and losing._

 _His nails splintered against the rock._

 _Fíli was lying in a hysterical Kíli's arms, an arrow in his throat and his eyes unseeing on the bank of a lake outside a mountain Frodo did not know._

 _Frodo wrenched himself back onto his feet._

 _Pearl was lashed to a tree, gagged, half-naked and crying as Paladin's lifeless body was tossed into a nearby ditch._

 _Frodo forced himself to the very end of the bridge._

 _Frerin was hiding beneath his father's motionless body, watching black orc boots walk closer and closer towards him._

 _Frodo opened his palm._

 _Bodin was holding his oldest brother's sword with shaking hands, trying to cover the bleeding Bofin while tears ran down his face._

 _Frodo looked at the smooth, golden ring._

 _He saw himself as if from someone else's eyes, he saw Frodo Baggins on blood-stained ground, strangled by long, white fingers._

 _Frodo could see his face reflected in the metal of the ring, but it was not his face._

 _It was Bilbo's. He was in Bilbo's body. Bilbo had climbed the hot mountain, Bilbo was staring at the ring of power._

 _He saw an eye of fire._

Frodo's entire body jolted and he flew upright, panting. His head was spinning, his sweaty fingers clenched around the blankets, and his eyes darted wildly around while they adjusted to the dark of the room. There was a snore from his right and he jumped, his fingernails digging into his palms through the blankets.

Beside him, Sam snored again, and then rolled over. Frodo could just about see his friend's sandy hair, and his chest rising up and down. He looked around, and saw everyone else in the room still asleep, still breathing.

Moaning softly, Frodo rested his head on his shaking knees. His heart was racing and he felt so cold, but worst was the feeling in his stomach –a tight, churning nausea that made the threat seem so much more palpable. The dream had not felt real, as such. His old nightmares had always felt real, but this was different, it felt like the dream was trying to tell him something.

No. Frodo shook his head. That could not be the case.

But if that was the future?

No. no, Frodo was not some sort of prophet, he was a hobbit. No, that could not be the future.

He would not let it be the future.

His breathing picked up and his heartrate sped up again, skipping several beats. He could feel it, terror, creeping up and closing his throat and –

 _"Have peace now until the morning. Heed no nightly noises."_ Goldberry's words chimed softly in his mind, and Frodo took a deep breath.

Have peace now until the morning.

Heed no nightly noises.

What had she said? " _For nothing passes door and window here save moonlight and starlight and the wind of the hill-top."_

He was safe, and more importantly his family was safe. He would worry about tomorrow in the morning.

Taking another deep breath, Frodo let his mind dwell on Goldberry's words, and he slowly drifted back into sleep.

It was the sunlight that woke him in the morning. It streamed through a crack in the curtains and fell directly over his eyes, but when he blinked his eyes open it seemed that most of his companions were still snoozing. They all looked peaceful, and they certainly deserved the lie in, so Frodo stood and let them be.

He rubbed his hand over his face and ran his fingers through his hair. He felt well rested, but his dream weighed heavily on his mind. As he walked out of the room, he followed the sound of Bilbo's voice to the dining room.

"…goodness' sake, Thorin, stop interrogating the man. He's been nothing but hospitable and…"

"I do not mean to interrogate anyone," Thorin said firmly as Frodo entered the room. The king was sitting was the table beside Dís and opposite Tom Bombadil. Bilbo was on her other side. "But I want to know how you can be so sure your lands are safe. I've seen no guards, no walls or fences."

"Guards and walls and fences, no, we have no need for those. The land is safe, and I keep it so," the man's eyes were sparkling and he winked at Frodo. The young hobbit had a strange feeling that the only person who did not enjoy winding up Thorin was Thorin himself. "Good morning, young Frodo."

"Oh, good morning, Frodo," Dís said, glancing over her shoulder with a smile. "Come, join us." Tom Bombadil gestured to the seat beside him.

Frodo smiled. "Thank you."

"So," Tom clapped his hands together and smiled at Bilbo. "You've told me the tale of why you're here, now, show me that precious ring of yours."

The reaction was immediate – Frodo's jaw dropped slightly, Dís gasped and Bilbo's eyes widened, while Thorin's narrowed dangerously.

"We told you nothing of a ring." The king's voice was cold as ice, and Frodo shifted ever so slightly away from Bombadil. If he knew Thorin Oakenshield as well as he thought, the dwarf his hand was itching towards his knife right about now.

"Not in so many words," Tom's smile did not shift, and to Frodo's utter amazement, Bilbo pulled the ring from his pocket.

The elder Baggins stared at the ring for a lingering moment, before passing it to Tom Bombadil. Frodo could barely breathe, let alone move as he watched the man hold the ring up high and stare at it. The ring glinted in the morning light, and then Tom put it to his eye, laughed, and looked through it, his piercing blue eye wreathed in gold. It was an oddly chilling sight.

"So," Tom balanced the ring on his little finger. "This is what has young Olórin all in a fuss…"

He slipped the onto his finger. Then Frodo gasped. Tom Bombadil was still, very much visible. The man laughed again, popped the ring back off, and then flung it into the air. In front of Frodo's very eyes, it vanished.

Shock and an unusual rage in his eyes, Bilbo leapt to his feet, but Tom laughed for a third time and passed the ring across the table. Bilbo snatched it back and stared suspiciously at the golden band. Looking directly at Tom Bombadil, he slipped the ring on his finger and vanished.

"Hey, now, Bilbo, Old Tom's not blind as that yet," Tom smiled and shook his head. "Take off your ring, your hand is fairer without it. And Olórin, stop dithering in the doorway. Come in and sit down. It'll soon be time to wake your companions."

Gandalf walked out of the shadows of the doorway with a smile on his lips but an odd look in his eye. It looked almost like disappointment. "Good morning. The weather is foul today."

"Oh yes," Tom said. "I doubt the sun will show her face today. You all may stay, rest awhile, and let your children play."

"Thank you, that would be lovely." Gandalf nodded, and then looked at Dís. "I've just looked over Fíli's wound – I feared that he was hiding the extent of his injuries. If a shard of a Morgul blade pierced his skin, the results could be disastrous."

"But it didn't, did it?" blurted Frodo. His heart was speeding up again, and one of the images from his dream passed in front of his mind clear as his uncles and aunt before him.

 _Fíli lying in a hysterical Kíli's arms, an arrow in his throat and his eyes unseeing on the bank of a lake outside a mountain Frodo did not know._

"No," Gandalf interrupted Frodo's thoughts, a genuine smile on his face. "No, Fíli is just fine. His 'shiny shirt' did indeed prevent most of the damage. His bruising was deep, and he will ache a while yet, but he will be fine."

Relief coursed through Frodo's veins, though the vision took longer to recede.

"Goldberry will help your wounded lad to heal," Tom said warmly.

"Thank goodness," Dís sighed, resting her head on her hands, before looking up sharply. "And thank you, Master Bombadil."

"Tom is my name," his grin softened. "Old Tom Bombadil. No need to call me Master, my dear."

Soon enough, Tom deemed it time to call everyone to breakfast, and Goldberry laid another incredible feast upon the table. As he looked around at his family, Frodo tried to forget his dream, and made a silent promise to himself.

His dreams would not become a reality.

Frodo Baggins would never, ever let that happen.

 **Well, I hope that you enjoyed that chapter, and I really hope that I did Tom Bombadil and his lovely Goldberry justice. They were both so difficult to write as they're so shrouded in mystery, but a ton of fun. The songs and poems are a mix of Tolkien's and my own, so I hope that it worked.**

 **Please, do leave a review if you fancy. They mean the world to me.**

 **Thank you for reading, and have a good day :D**


	6. Chapter 6: Friends and Farewells

**Hello everyone! It's surprisingly quick update here, even if it is a bit of a filler. I hope I'll be able to keep up weekly or fortnightly updates but I'm back at uni on Monday and I know better than to make you lovely people any promises. Anyway, thank you for your support for the last chapter!**

 **I hope you enjoy this next one, and as ever please forgive my inevitable typos.**

 **Read, Enjoy, Review!**

 **Chapter Six # Friends and Farewells #**

Sam had to admit, he did not like the idea of leaving the house of Tom Bombadil. They had spent a glorious rainy day listening to stories from the strange man and the beautiful Goldberry, and even Thorin and Dwalin had relaxed. Gandalf seemed restless, but to everyone else, Tom's merriment was infectious.

But then the second day dawned bright and sunny, and the time to depart was approaching. Sam busied himself making sure that all their bags were secured to the ponies and done up properly – it would not do for their lovely, fresh food supplies to get soggy at the first rainfall.

He was halfway through double checking the straps on Bofur's pony when Tom Bombadil hopped into the barn, humming as he went.

"Ah! Samwise, do you not trust your hosts? Tom told you that your things were packed, your wolves and ponies too," the man said, his eyes twinkling.

Sam blushed. "Oh, no sir, no sir, you just can't be too careful. I like to be prepared, me."

"And you don't trust anyone else to do it well enough. It shows in your eyes. You don't trust easily, do you?" Tom commented in the same tone one would use to acknowledge a cloudless sky. "But that's understandable with the life you've had. How I was hoping to talk to the brave young Sam Gamgee one day, and ho! Here you are."

"Well, I, uh," Sam spluttered, his confusion spilling aloud. "I'm begging your pardon sir, but what?"

Tom Bombadil laughed loudly. "No need to look so suspicious my lad. My friend been telling me stories about you since you were a little child."

"Me?" Sam felt utterly stupefied, and despite Tom's words his suspicion was growing. "Who's your friend – and why'd he tell you about me?"

An odd, almost sad look flickered through Tom's eyes for a moment, but his knowing smile remained. "I am older than these woods, friend Sam, and there shall come a day when I should feel that this year I am very young. Friends and loved ones come and go, and Tom and his Goldberry stay. It can be easy with the blurring of the years, to lose touch of what is coming and going outside. But Old Tom has his sources, and he's been sharing stories with Farmer Maggot for many a year."

"Farmer Maggot?" blurted Sam. "Not Farmer Maggot of Buckland?"

"The very same," Tom tipped his hat. "And two decades ago he came to me and said, 'Tom, I've got a good'un for you. A sad'un, but a good'un.' He told me the story of your family, and of how you chose to follow your heart and your friends to Erebor, and at such a young age. T'was a very brave thing you did, and it struck me as much as it did dear Maggot. Your father went to him, you see, to ask if he knew of a messenger to deliver a parcel to you. 'I sent him to the rangers,' Maggot said, 'I didn't think you'd be likely to fancy a trip to Erebor.' He was right of course. Tom's place is here, with his Goldberry, but he has been curious of the fate of Sam Gamgee for a long while. When you return Maggot brings me tales of it, and I'm glad to see you seem just as good a fellow as he believes you to be."

By now, Sam's cheeks were burning, and for a long time after Tom fell silent, he did not know what to say. For two decades this man, this magical, mysterious man had heard stories of Sam, _Sam,_ the least interesting and least noble member of the entire company, and thought him a 'good fellow.'

Glancing up at the sky, Tom clicked his tongue and cleared his throat. "The goodbye hour is drawing nearer, and the time is growing clearer. You'll soon leave Tom and Goldberry, to pass the deadly downs, for Bree. Stay brave, Samwise, and come again, should your tale lead back to Tom's domain."

With that, the man bowed and headed for the door. The ponies and wolves all trotted after him, leaving Sam quite alone in the barn. The young hobbit blinked, and tried to process what had just happened. He was still puzzling it over when he heard Frodo calling.

"Sam? Sam? Are you out here?" Frodo ducked his head around the barn door and grinned. "Come on Sam, we're all waiting for you!"

"What?" Sam blinked again. "Oh. Oh, I'm sorry, Frodo, I'm just coming."

Frodo frowned as Sam walked up to him. "Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost…"

"I'm alright," Sam insisted, his own eyebrows knitting together as his forehead creased. "That Master Bombadil's an odd fellow, don't you think? We just had the strangest conversation…"

"Yes, I think so," Frodo said with a wry smile. "But I do think it is a good kind of odd. Like Gandalf in a way, but then nothing like him at all." Studying Sam's face, Frodo paused for a moment. "Is there anything that you want to talk about?"

Sam shook his head. "No thank you, Frodo, not now."

"Very well then," Frodo clamped his hand down on Sam's shoulder for a moment. "We'll leave when you're ready."

"Oh, fiddlesticks," Sam rolled his eyes and pushed the barn door open once more. "We'll leave now, I'm more than ready. "

"If you say so."

Shaking his head slowly, Sam followed Frodo out to the front of Tom and Goldberry's house. Their whole group had already assembled, and Bofur was holding the reins of Sam's pony, Bill.

"C'mon, you wee scoundrels, we want to leave before dark if we can," his guardian joked. "Though if you're stalling to try and stay another day I don't blame you."

It was just as sad as Sam had thought it would be to bid farewell to Tom and Goldberry. With a final warning about some sort of 'barrows' Tom waved his hand.

"Speed now, fair guests!" Goldberry said, her voice warming Sam's heart a little. "And hold to your purpose! North with the wind in the left eye and a blessing on your footsteps. Make haste while the Sun shines!"

True to the mysterious couple's words, the sun held out while Gandalf led them through the forest, and then through the odd, foggy lands that the wizard called the Barrow-downs. Sam did not like the downs, not one bit. Odd mounds, old tombs and sloping hills, and thick, clinging mists.

"Stay close together!" Gandalf ordered, throwing a rope along their column. When everyone had a hand on it, they meandered through the fog in silence.

Hours passed without word or incident, and by the time the sun was setting they had reached the woods on the other side.

"Not far, now," the wizard's weary voice rang over them all. "Not far. If we press on, if we put on just a little speed we will reach the Prancing Pony before Barliman closes his doors."

"A little more speed?" Thorin called from the pony in front of Sam. Eyja was sitting in his lap, her legs wrapped around the king's waist and her arms around his neck so that she could snooze on his chest, but she was still awake. She stared at Sam, her blue eyes red-rimmed and half-closed, and her mouth was the straight line that told those who knew her she was tired, or afraid, or both. "For how long, Gandalf? The children need rest."

"Not long. I swear to you. Not long."

Sam sighed heavily, his own eyes aching, and urged Bill to go faster. It was sooner than he anticipated, however, that they saw the lights of a nearing village. _Bree,_ he thought, relief easing his travel-weary muscles a little. They rode with renewed vigour to the gate, and made it to the Prancing Pony two whole hours before the bar was to close, which was better than Sam could have hoped for.

Sitting at one of the tables they were occupying, Sam waited for the ale to flow and studied their surroundings. He had been to the Prancing Pony many a time, and it seemed just as cosy and quaint tonight, save one detail. In the corner, there was a hooded stranger staring at their group. He had been staring since they entered, and Sam could see the shadow of a sword by his side.

Glaring at the stranger, Sam ran his fingers over his own knife. Its sheath on his belt felt natural to him now – Bofur had insisted on him having a knife on his person at all times, ever since he was twenty years old.

 _"Just in case, Sammy-boy. Whenever you leave the house, you take this with you. With any luck you'll never have to use it, but it's always best to be prepared."_

"Alright, Sam my lad?" Bofur said cheerfully, plonking himself down in the seat opposite Sam. "That wasn't our easiest journey, was it?"

"I wouldn't say so," Sam said darkly, peering around his guardian to the stranger. The hooded man still stared at them, the smoke from his pipe the only sign of movement. "Here, what d'you think of that man over there? He's done nothing but stare at us since we walked in."

Frowning, Bofur looked over his shoulder. "I see… Doesn't look awfully friendly, does he?"

Sam narrowed his eyes as the man stood up, walking towards them with slow, purposeful steps. Standing up, Sam prowled around Bofur – to the dwarf's spluttered protest – and strode right up to the man, his hand on the hilt of his knife. His other hand he thrust towards the man's face.

"Listen," he snarled, "I don't know who you think you are or what you're doing –"

"I am here," the man growled back, "for your company." Then he removed his hood, grinned at Sam, and spoke in a much more pleasant tone. "As for who I am, well. It has not been that long, I should hope, Sam?"

"Estel!" Sam cried, immediately dropping his knife to wring the man's hand. "Why, it has been a long time, it has! What luck you're here as we are!"

"Less luck," Gandalf said, striding over and putting his hand on Estel's shoulder as cheerful cries of greeting rose from the company. "And more loyalty. Thank you for coming, Aragorn."

"So," Dwalin raised his greying eyebrows. "This is the friend you would have protect us. Not bad, Master Wizard. How are you laddie?"

"Well, but I shall be better when we find better shelter. The enemy is not far behind you, I fear."

It was then that Sam noted something odd about his old friend – it had been a decade, almost, when Estel last visited Erebor, and in that time his eyes had grown dark. Grimmer. Like the other rangers that Sam had met. He had never thought 'Aragorn' suited the man, but now it seemed that Estel had grown into his true name.

"Where would you have us go?" Thorin raised his eyebrows. There was no accusation in his tone, and Sam thanked his lucky stars that Gandalf had been sensible enough to get someone they trusted already. If he had called on a stranger, their king would not be nearly as polite. "We have stayed in this inn many a time, and I know of no safer place in Bree. Our children are weary, and I would see them in bed soon."

"He's going soft in his old age," Fíli said, tweaking Eyja's nose. "And he spoils you as if you were his grandchildren. When we were travel weary Thorin thought ale more important than our sleeping."

Annoyance flickered in the king's eyes and he glared at Fíli for a moment, before turning back to Aragorn. "Well?"

"I doubt not the good-will of Barliman Butterbur, nor that this is the safest establishment for many miles, but it is known that you favour the Prancing Pony. The nine will find you here." The man looked at Gandalf, looking even grimmer than before. "I fear they are close. There is a house down the street that is unoccupied, I have loaned it for the evening. We will be safer there, I trust."

"Indeed," Gandalf nodded. "I think that would be the wiser choice. We shall eat here, then make for this house. If, of course, that is pleasing to you, Thorin Oakenshield."

"Aye. Though if they do not find us here, will they not simply continue looking?"

A dark look passed between Aragorn and Gandalf, and Sam swallowed.

"The matter is complicated by our number," the wizard sighed. "Were there less of us we could set up decoys, but thirty-five, without taking into account wolves and ponies…"

"Understood," Thorin nodded. "We will do what we can."

The mood lifted significantly when food and drink was soon brought to their table, and Sam tore into his dinner with gusto. He imagined that it would be a while, yet, before he would have so good a meal as this. By the end of it, however, he was nodding over his tankard.

"Am I going to have to carry you to bed, Sammy-boy?" Bofur asked, throwing his arm over the hobbit's shoulders. "Like when you were smaller than Bodin?"

"No," Sam shoved his guardian with a grin. "I'm awake. Unlike the twins." Across the table, Orla was snoring with her head on her arms. Ola was using her sister's head as a pillow, which did not look all that comfortable to Sam. "You worry about them, I'm alright."

"Ah, lad, it's my job to worry about you." Bofur bumped his shoulder into Sam. "No matter how grown up you think you are."

Sam grinned down at his tankard. He loved his Old Gaffer more than words could say – or at least more than his words could. Bilbo or Kíli or Frodo could probably come up with some fancy poetry that would work. But just as much as he loved his papa, Sam loved Bofur. The dwarf was a second father to him, and had been since the dwarf claimed the lonely hobbit as his ward. More than any of the others, Bofur and his family understood how it felt to live your life as a pauper and then to suddenly be thrust into nobility. Bofur had cared for Sam as if he was his son, and even now with Bombur's five eldest children under his care, Bofur always made time to see that Sam was alright.

"Still," Sam said after a pause. "I'm all but an adult now. Only one more year and-"

"Aye, lad," Bofur interrupted. "But the same can be said for Kíli, and that goes to show that your age in years is as useful as hair curlers are to a hobbit. You're younger than the twins when it comes to years. I'll always think of you as that wee lad in a little one-piece pyjama set, making flowers out of the cuttings of emeralds."

Rolling his eyes, Sam drained the last of his drink. "I think-" he yawned. "I could do with going to bed."

"Aye," yawned Bofur. "I quite agree."

* * *

It was still dark when Thorin rose. He walked slowly through the dark corridors of the creaking house, and massaged his aching back. His greying hair was no longer the only sign of his age – it was growing more uncomfortable to travel at such a desperate rate. Still, he would be damned if he did not have many years of fight left in him, especially when his family were in peril.

He made his way to the small kitchen, where Gandalf, Bilbo, Dís, Fíli and Kíli were gathered. They all looked up at his arrival, and he sighed with a heavy heart.

"Has it been decided? Are you all to leave?"

"Yes," Dís' gaze dropped to the floor. "My sons and I will accompany Bilbo and Gandalf at great haste. Anymore will slow us down."

Bilbo met Thorin's eyes. The hobbit looked as if a mountain rested on his shoulders. "I wanted to go alone with Gandalf. I would not have them accompany me on a path where devils are hunting me."

"But we would not have it any other way," Fíli said, his face disturbingly harsh. "The sooner the ring is in Rivendell the safer it is, and the further we are from the others the less danger they are in."

"The wolves can keep up with Gandalf's horse, if not outrun it," Kíli explained softly. "We will take them."

Two decades ago, Thorin would have forbidden it. For his closest kin to ride with such monsters on their tail, to be separated from his nephews, sister, and brother-in-law in a time of such evil went against every instinct in his body. But now, he knew no words of his would sway them. So he swallowed the lump in his throat and said, "Very well."

"We will see you in Rivendell, brother," Dís put her hands on his cheeks, smiling sadly. "I promise you that. Take care of our family."

"Of course," Thorin took her in his arms and closed his eyes. "You do the same, namadith."

Pulling away from his sister, Thorin embraced Bilbo, and then opened his arms to his sister-sons. They held him so tightly that he half-hoped they would never be able to let him go.

But let him go they did, with grim smiles and bowed heads.

"It is time to leave," Gandalf said gravely, limping around the table and bowing at Thorin.

The king shook his head, and offered Gandalf his hand. "Make haste, and keep them safe."

"I will," the wizard nodded sadly. "Do not forget that you are still in grave danger. Travel as fast as the youngest will allow, and with any luck we'll see you in Rivendell by the month's end. Aragorn will guide you through the best path, trust him, Thorin, I beg you."

"There is no need to beg," Thorin replied wryly. "There are few men to have held my trust as long as he, and I should not doubt him without good reason."

He followed the five wordlessly out of the door to the nearby stables, their path briefly halted by farewells and good lucks from Nori, who was on watch. Gandalf lifted Bilbo to the front of his horse, while Kíli, Fíli and Dís mounted three of the wolves.

Thorin cleared his throat. "You have enough supplies?"

He had expected a sarcastic comment from his sister, but what he got in reply was a sombre nod. "I believe so. Durin bless you and keep you, nadad."

Thorin nodded slowly. "May the Valar keep you all in their sights and away from harm."

"We _will_ see you in Rivendell, Uncle," Kíli promised, a small smile on his face. "So don't be late."

"I shall do my best," Thorin bowed. The five bowed back, and then Gandalf closed his eyes and flicked his horse's reins.

Thorin watched them go, staring into the half-light of the morning. He prayed with every fibre of his being that it would not be the last time he saw them alive, but the Nazgûl had branded such a fear on his heart, a fear that he would never speak aloud.

The last he saw of them was the glint of Fíli's hair when they passed the light of a nearby house, but then darkness swallowed them and they were gone.

 **Well, I hope you liked it! From what I've read of Tom Bombadil, I think he'd think Sam's story an interesting one, and I hope you agree. There may seem to be a few loose ends regarding Tom and Goldberry, but don't worry – they're going to be woven into a future chapter.**

 **Thank you so much for reading, I really hope that you enjoyed it. Please leave a review if you would like to, they truly make my day and I appreciate all and any feedback you may have.**

 **Have a good day!**


	7. Chapter 7: The Duty of the Son

**Thank you so much for your lovely reviews for the last chapter! This one is up later than I wanted it to be, but still under two weeks since the last one, so yay :D I hope that you enjoy it!**

 **Please forgive any mistakes, as ever!**

 **Read, enjoy and review :D**

 **Chapter Seven # The Duty of the Son #**

Frodo woke alone on the musty wooden floor of a rented room. The first thing he saw was his own arm, outstretched towards the disturbance in the dust where Fíli had slept the night before. His heart sinking, Frodo reached out, but his fingers fell through the air and he closed his eyes once more.

They were gone, then. He had failed.

His plan had been to rise earlier than even Gandalf, to saddle a wolf and demand that they take him with them, that they not leave him behind. It did not matter to him that the others would follow along soon – Bilbo was in the greatest danger and therefore it was Bilbo who needed him the most.

 _"You are not coming, and that is final. I mean it, Frodo." Bilbo's voice was low and dangerous, a tone the young hobbit had rarely heard before._

 _"I will not be the only Baggins left behind," he protested. "I can ride hard and fast as you can, I'm as sharp with a sword as Bofin, I can hold my own-"_

 _"But you should not have to," Bilbo took Frodo's shoulders in his hands. "You will not have to. You will go with Aragorn."_

 _"Uncle, please," Frodo put his hand on Bilbo's forearm. He had to make him understand, had to make him see… "You and Auntie Dís, Fíli and Kíli, you are my family, my immediate family and if you go. If you go and something happens to you I cannot be the final Baggins. I cannot be the only one left."_

 _"Oh, Frodo," Bilbo's frown deepened, and it looked like the lines were carved so deep they would never leave his forehead. "We will be fine, and you will never be alone. This house is filled with your family-"_

 _"And I love every one of them deeply," Frodo agreed, tightening his grip on his uncle's arms. "But it is not the same. You know it is not. The same way that I will never be quite as dear to Merry as Pippin is, or the way that Bofin and the others will never love Bofur the same way they love their father. The love we share is deeper than the roots of the mountains but it's not the same. You were the one who taught me that there are many kinds of love, and you were the one that taught me to do what my heart and head agree upon."_

 _"Frodo," Bilbo pursed his lips and shook his head, tears springing to his eyes. He moved his hands from Frodo's shoulders to his face. "You do not understand. I cannot lose you, my boy. I knew, when I took you from Brandy Hall, I knew that I would be taking you into danger. More danger than you would be in if you stayed in the Shire, no, listen. I lessened my guilt by saying it was your choice, but you were far too young to make such a choice- no, Frodo listen to me!" Frodo stopped trying to interrupt. "I will not take you into this danger. I will not, I cannot. You are as a son to me, Frodo, and I am so proud of you, but I cannot take you into further peril."_

 _Silence fell between them, and Frodo squeezed Bilbo's wrists. "I am of age now, Uncle. It is my choice to make."_

 _Bilbo smiled, a tear trailing down his cheek. "No, Frodo. Not this time. I will see you, my dear, dear boy, in Rivendell. And that is the end of it."_

It had not been the end of it. Frodo had argued and pleaded with Fíli, Kíli, Dís and even Gandalf, but all had refused him.

It cut him to his very core to know that they were right. The smaller the group, the faster they travel, and the easier it is to go unseen. He knew that. But it did not stop him from feeling that his place was with his family.

How was he to protect them if he was not there?

 _He could see Dís screaming on her blood-soaked bed._

 _He could see Fíli lying in a hysterical Kíli's arms, an arrow in his throat and his eyes unseeing._

 _He could see himself on blood-stained ground, strangled by long, white fingers._

 _He could see Bilbo Baggins, staring into a ring of power above an abyss of fire._

There was a knock on the door.

He shook his head and scrambled to his feet. "Come in!"

"You decent?" Nelly's voice called.

 _Nelly, dragged away with an iron hook in her shoulder –_

"Yes," he cleared his throat, half hoping that it would also clear his head. "Yes, yes, I'm dressed."

His cousin opened the door, already fully dressed in her travelling gear. "We're going to leave as soon as breakfast is finished, and it's on the table now. Did they get off alright then?"

"I do not know," Frodo muttered, staring at the bed. "They did not wake me."

"Ah," Nelly paused, and sent him a sad little smile. "Well, we'll see them soon enough. Stop worrying about those with the wizard and start worrying about those of us who're left behind. Or, more importantly, start worrying about the lack of breakfast you'll have to deal with if you don't pack your things and get down to the table within, say, five minutes."

Frodo nodded absently with a soft sigh.

"Hey," Nelly frowned, striding across the room and seizing his shoulder. "Hey, come on now, pet, pull yourself together. You look like you just headbutted Dwalin again, got that dazed look in your eyes. And trust me, Frodo, I know. We're all worried and you more than all of us, but it's what Gandalf thought was best and who can we trust if not Gandalf? They're gone now, Frodo, and nothing you do now is going to change that. So, what you're going to do is take a few moments to screw your head on straight, and then you're going to buck up, come downstairs and eat something. Ir-rûzud tanallikhi, id-nûlukh tarazzidi."

 _The sun is still shining, the moon glows on._

Staring into her eyes for a long moment, Frodo nodded. "Alright…"

She pinched his cheek the same way her mother would, ducking his half-hearted swipe with a grin that did not meet her eyes. "Hang in there, Frodo, alright?"

With that, she turned and disappeared down the corridor, leaving Frodo alone in the room once again. He began to pick up the few things he had unpacked the night before, his blankets, bedroll and a couple of odd bits and pieces to have tumbled from his bag.

Nelly was right. No good could come from him sulking like a child, none at all, and if he was the only Baggins left in the group he would endeavour to live up to his name. Perhaps he could not ride with his uncle, but he could put on a brave face.

Sighing, Frodo thrust his possessions into his bag, and slung it over his shoulder. When he made his way to the kitchen, he was immediately bombarded by Orla. Bombur's oldest daughter slammed into him with surprising force for her size and wrapped her arms tightly around the hobbit's waist. She gazed up at him, her little chin pushing into his chest, an unusually solemn look in her dark green eyes.

"G'd mornin', Frodo," she said. "How're you feeling, khuzdith?"

Frodo could not help but smile. 'How're you feeling, khuzdith?' was Marta's catchphrase when her family were upset, but hearing it from her daughter's lips was just as humorous as it was comforting. Particularly given that the literal translation of 'khuzdith' was 'little dwarf'. "I am feeling… alright, thank you Orla. How are you?"

"Well, fine, I s'pose," she furrowed her eyebrows as if this was highly unimportant. She glanced conspiratorially around the room, before gesturing for him to lean down. When he did, she whispered into his ear. "Now, don't be sad about Bilbo going on ahead. It'll all be fine, and I love you, alright?"

He hugged her tighter and then poked her on the nose. "Alright, Orla. I love you very much too."

She nodded, grinned, and then bounced off across the room to join her twin. The rest of the room was rather sombre, and the dwarfling was not the only one to express her concern for Frodo. It took him five whole minutes to convince Ellie that he was fine. Even Thorin fussed, in the king's own way. Even when they began riding, he remained close to Frodo, and as it began to rain he thrust his own travelling cloak at the young hobbit.

"Here," he said gruffly. Though Frodo wanted to protest, he knew that his uncle would need to feel useful somehow – especially since he was also missing his immediate family – so Frodo took the cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders. Glancing down at his hands, he paused, and then dug an apple out of one of his saddlebags.

"Thank you," he said, passing over the fruit. A half-smile tugged at one corner of Thorin's mouth, and he nodded at the young hobbit. Frodo smiled back, and raised the hood-over his head. He leant back in the saddle, took a deep breath, and prepared himself for a bumpy ride.

* * *

 _Alone in a strange land, a young man clambered up away from his horse's cadaver and ran. The darkness was bearing down upon him, rolling closer and closer in a mass of black mist and fire. The man looked frantically over his shoulder, terror in his grey eyes, and an arrow flew from the heart of the dark cloud._

 _Suspended above, Boromir watched in horror as the arrow tore through his brother's cheek. Boromir could not move, and the screams that ripped from his throat made no sound. The scream that Faramir let out was louder than any noise Boromir had ever heard._

 _The younger brother stumbled forwards and kept running, but now more and more arrows were flying from the black mist, and he could not dodge them all. One, two, three arrows embedded into his back, and Faramir fell._

 _Boromir screamed._

Heart in his throat, Boromir, son of Denethor, woke up. A dream. It was just another dream. He let out a slow breath, watching it cloud in the cold air. His fire was going out, but he could see the horizon lightening slightly. Morning was near.

He sat up, and thought over the words that had long since been imprinted on his mind.

 _"Seek for the Sword that was broken:  
In Imladris it dwells;  
There shall be counsels taken  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
There shall be shown a token  
That Doom is near at hand,  
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,  
And the Halfling forth shall stand."_

Groaning, Boromir shook his head. Faramir was not dead. He was not dead, he was not hurt, he was in Gondor. He was home, he was safe. But even so the nightmares still plagued Boromir. He had thought that when he took on the trip to Rivendell, when _he_ left instead, that he would stop dreaming about his little brother dying.

It was strange, to think that dreams were what had driven him so far from home. When he had woken with the remnants of a verse in his head, he thought that he had simply had too much to drink the night before, but at breakfast Faramir had recited the exact same words to him. It was not the first time, either, that Faramir had spoken of Imladris, and Denethor said that he was ready to let the younger go.

That very night, Boromir had dreamt of his baby brother's death for the first time, and the next morning he knew that he would never let Faramir take that trip. Not while he had breath left. It was harder to convince their father to let the older brother leave, something that churned Boromir's stomach. He hoped that his father was not being too hard on Faramir. No matter what Denethor thought, it was not Faramir's fault that their mother had died.

Clearing his throat, Boromir stood up, and began to pack up his camp. The time for contemplation was over. It was time for what he did best – it was time to act.

Rivendell was his destination, and it was not that far away.

* * *

"I do not like this place," Kíli muttered to his brother, running his fingers through Luno's fur. "It feels dark. Haunted."

"Well, it's not the Prancing Pony, that's for sure," Fíli muttered back, his mind drifting to the cheery rooms that they used to stay in.

"It feels as though there are ghosts here," Kíli murmured, his dark eyes drifting over the ruins around them. "This was the watchtower of Amon Sûl once. Bilbo taught me in my history lessons…"

"Oh? What happened?"

Kíli sighed. "There was a battle. A Witch-King, I think it was, launched an attack on the Dúnedain who tried to defend it. They could not. It has been in ruins ever since."

"A Witch-King?" Fíli felt a shiver run down his spine, and he scanned the ground beneath them as best he could in the darkness. "Did Gandalf not say that the leader of the Ringwraiths was known as a Witch-King?"

A light dawned in Kíli's eyes, and he looked to his brother fearfully. "Yes," he whispered, "yes, I think that he did. I don't like the foreshadowing of that."

"It is long in the past, is it not?" when Kíli nodded, Fíli continued. "Life is not a story, Kíli, do not give yourself the extra worry of foreshadowing. It is an old world, and there are bound to be histories wherever you tread."

Kíli pulled a face. "But it does mean that he knows how to attack this fortress. Perhaps it would've been better to keep going…"

"No," Fíli said. "The wolves could not go any further, nor could Gandalf's horse. We are pushing them close to their limits, I fear, it would not do to push our luck further."

"I suppose you're right," Kíli pursed his lips.

An easterly wind ruffled their hair, and Fíli glanced over to the half-hidden side room mere feet away. He could see Bilbo and Dís sleeping inside, and knew that Gandalf was around the corner. The princes had insisted on taking the first watch, but they had no way of knowing if the wizard would actually let himself sleep. Fíli was more than a little worried about Gandalf, though he had seemed a little stronger since Tom Bombadil's house.

Fíli gazed up at the sky, but the stars were shrouded with cloud. He could hear no sounds, save Bilbo's soft snoring, his mother's heavy breathing and Kíli fidgeting beside him. Occasionally, one of the wolves would let out a whine in their sleep, and Luno, whose head was cradled in Kíli's lap, would made a funny little howling noise now and again. Now, though, it was almost silent.

"I am afraid," Kíli turned his head and looked at Fíli. "I am afraid, nadad. If _Gandalf_ is afraid…"

"I am scared too," Fíli admitted, smiling sadly. "But, we are making great progress, and we must hold onto hope. We have yet far to go, and a journey is always easier with a light heart."

Kíli snorted. "Since when have you been the poet, Fíli?"

"Well, I was much more poetic than you before you went and got yourself raised by the most poetic hobbit to have ever lived," said Fíli, grinning. "You hated reading and poetry before then."

"I had such bad taste," Kíli pretended to wince, and Fíli laughed softly.

"You know," he murmured, "this takes me back. Just the two of us on watch, while the rest of the world is asleep…"

"The start of the quest," Kíli remembered with a smile of his own, "before we knew each other again. Though it didn't take long, did it?"

"Of course not," Fíli wrapped his arm around his brother's shoulder, "it couldn't've. Not with you and I."

"Aw, Fíli the sentimental," Kíli teased as he shuffled to better rest his head against Fíli's. "You're right, though."

"I'm always right."

"How about the time-"

Fíli coughed. "Almost always."

Kíli smirked. "Alright then."

They sat in silence for a while, until Fíli's thoughts pressed so heavily on his mind that he had to divulge them. "I forget, sometimes, how it felt. To find you again, but for me to mean so little to you. How it felt for my brother to be a stranger. I forget those early days, when things were awkward and uncomfortable, when we did not know where we stood."

"Me too," Kíli said quietly. "I look back, and it feels like I always knew you, even when I had no memory. I know that was not the case, but it feels impossible that I could have ever looked at you as a stranger. But that's what you were. You were a stranger, who was much like me. The family resemblance is uncanny."

Fíli let out a huff of laughter and held his brother a little closer. "You know, I wouldn't change it. All that pain, those years of grieving... I would not change it now. The family just would not be complete without Bilbo and the others."

"I wonder if we would've met him anyway," Kíli mused, his eyebrows furrowed. "Gandalf chose him as the burglar before knowing I was with him, perhaps we would have met him in any case. I wonder what would've happened…"

"That is an interesting thought," Fíli admitted. "But I wouldn't risk any of what we have now."

"Oh, me neither," Kíli shook his head vehemently, but then paused. "Except, perhaps, this part here, where we are chased by monsters and afraid for our lives. This part I would not miss at all."

Fíli laughed softly again. "No, nor would I."

A comfortable silence fell between them, and Fíli absently rubbed circles into his brother's shoulder. The old wounds had healed now, and looking at the scars could now be done without sending him into a relapse of panic or sorrow. It had taken years to get to this point – after returning to Erebor, Fíli had tried to really talk about the years without Kíli with his mother, and had been plagued by nightmares for three weeks straight. Dís, of course, had sent him straight to the Mind Healers, and after a few years of what Kíli dubbed 'mind mending' Fíli was in a much more stable place.

Especially since Kíli had not left his side for more than half a day in the last two decades.

A stronger breeze sent a shiver down Fíli's spine, and he frowned. Something felt off. Beside him, Kíli yawned, and Fíli narrowed his eyes, scouring the land beneath them. There was enough moonlight to make out the mist clinging to the ground at the bottom of the hill, and enough light to see five tall, cloaked figures floating through the darkness.

A cold fist seemed to clench around Fíli's heart, and the arm that was around Kíli's shoulder's tightened. "Get up!" he hissed.

"What?" Kíli frowned, and peered down. Then his face drained of all colour, and his hand flew to his belt. Fíli put a finger on his lips, and Kíli nodded, swallowing hard. They stood up noiselessly, and Luno bristled. Then, upon seeing the creatures below, the wolf let out a small whine and backed away to the wall, his ears pressed against his head.

"Go, go!" Fíli all but pushed Kíli into the guard room.

"Wake up!" his brother whispered frantically, shaking Bilbo's arm, and then Dís'. "Wake up, they've found us, we have to go! Gandalf-"

The wizard leapt to his feet, his face pale, and nodded. "All of you, up to the top of the tower."

"But," Kíli glanced at Fíli. "Gandalf, we have to go, we have to run!"

"There is no running now," Gandalf shook his head. "They will run us down; our steeds are too weary. We must defend ourselves. Now, all of you, up to the top of the tower."

Dís nodded and led the way. The wolves followed them all up, but for the first time in years they looked half ready to bolt. Gandalf's horse remained tethered in the side-room, its hooves tapping loudly on the stone floor.

"We are more exposed here," Dís stared at Gandalf as he joined them. "This is not a strategic-"

Fíli's heart beat faster by the second as he saw what had stolen his mother's words. Five tall, cloaked figures were walking towards them, one from every direction, and they were surrounded.

"Get back!" Gandalf roared, banging his staff down on the stone and sending a beam of white light in all directions. "Go back to the shadows from whence you came!"

With a shriek that seemed to pierce Fíli's heart, the creatures attacked all at once, each one of them charging at Bilbo. Roaring in anger, Kíli swung his sword at the wraith nearest to him, and the clang of metal on metal rang through the air. Dís and Gandalf engaged a rider each, while Fíli lurched at the wraith closest to Bilbo. The hobbit looked as though he was about to be sick, but he took a defensive stance against the last wraith nevertheless.

A jet of flames shot from Gandalf's staff, and one of the wraiths tipped over the edge of the mountain with another screech.

 _Time,_ Fíli thought, ducking the swing of the wraiths sword and countering with his own two blades. _We just need to give Gandalf time._

Vaguely, he could hear the battle cries of the others, and out of the corner of his eye he saw more flames. Then he heard the distinctive crash of metal on stone, and his mother scream.

 _"Bilbo!"_

Kicking his enemy backwards, Fíli whirled around and his heart dropped into his stomach. Sting lay two feet away from Bilbo, who had been knocked onto the floor. There was a wraith bearing down upon him, sword in hand and –

Fíli was sent crashing to the floor with a cry of pain. The wraith he had so stupidly turned his back on had struck him, but once again the mithril shirt had saved his life. Time seemed to slow down as he saw the wraith above Bilbo raise its sword to strike. Desperate, Fíli began to crawl, three feet, two feet, one foot-

The sword was falling.

Fíli threw himself forward and landed on top of Bilbo.

The sword came down.

Fíli turned over, glaring at the attacker and striking up with his own sword-

Too late.

The tip of the Nazgûl's sword came down and pierced Fíli's skin just below his collar bone.

Just before the top of his shiny shirt.

And then it went deeper, and light began to dance in front of Fíli's eyes. A scream wrenched from his throat but he was cut off by a pain he had never felt before. Choking on air, Fíli felt the blade be wrenched from his body, but the pain only got worse. Burning, searing, he could smell his own blood pooling beneath his neck, but already he could see nothing but blurs.

Suddenly there were arms around him and he was dragged upwards into someone's lap. He tried to draw breath, but it did not feel like it reached his lungs. His fear grew into terror and he gasped for breath, his fingers clutching at the air that would not help him.

"Fíli!" a voice, Bilbo's voice, cried, and there was a hand brushing hair from his face. "Oh Fíli, what have you done? What have you done?"

 _"Fíli!"_ Kíli was screaming, and Fíli tried to find him, but lolling his head made the pain so much worse and he could not see. Was his brother hurt? Was he still fighting? Did he need help? Why was Bilbo not helping Kíli? He could smell burning, and his eyes stung as if there were smoke or heat in the air, but he could not see. He could not see anything. What if Kíli was burning?

"K-K-K-" Fíli coughed, but still it did not feel like he was breathing – _why couldn't he breathe?_ – and he could not get past the first letter of his brother's name.

"Kíli's fine," Bilbo's voice sobbed. "You hold on, Fíli, you hold on now. Good boy, you brave, brave boy, just hold on, Gandalf's coming! Gandalf!"

Then he felt a hand take his, and his mother's voice murmured to him. "Stay with us, dushtêl, you stay with Amad. Amad's here, everything is going to be fine. You're going to be alright, Fíli, you're going to be alright."

The sounds were getting fainter, and Fíli felt his useless eyelids flutter.

"No!" Kíli, that was Kíli's voice. "No, no, Fee, don't you dare. Gandalf! Fíli you stay awake, dammit! Fíli!"

Terror flooded every one of Fíli's veins as his eyes dragged themselves closed. He tried to cling to his mother's hand, to cling to consciousness but he was being pulled, pulled by the darkness and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He could hear Kíli screaming.

 _"Stop it, Fíli, stop it, wake up, wake up_ now!"

 _I'm trying,_ he thought, more frightened than he had ever been in his life. _I'm trying, Kíli!_

 _I don't want to die._

 **I hope that you liked that chapter, and that it made up for the slight wait :) I hope to have the next one up fairly soon, but we shall see :D**

 **Also, I do hope Boromir's cameo didn't feel too out of place :D**

 **Thank you so much for reading. Please leave a review if you fancy, they make me unbelievably happy! I hope that you have a good day, and I hope to see you soon!**


	8. Chapter 8: Come Back to Me

**Hi everyone! Three weeks in a row, hey? I'm getting back into the swing of things, I hope ;) Thanks to those of you who reviewed the last chapter, I really appreciate it. As per usual, apologies for any mistakes and typos.**

 **This chapter is named after the beautiful Les Friction song 'Come Back to Me'. I highly recommend it, it's so evocative, and I've popped the lyrics at the bottom of the chapter in case anyone's interested.**

 **Read. Enjoy. Review.**

 **Chapter Eight # Come Back to Me #**

Inside, Bilbo was dying. His heart felt like it was caught in a red-hot vice in the forge – it was being crushed and burnt, crushed and burnt at the same time, and the pain was so intense that he could not breathe. Gnarled and knotted, his stomach was aching, and his throat felt so tight, so sore. His hands were shaking, and the tremors ran throughout his whole body.

But Bilbo did not have time to be in pain. Because in his arms, Fíli was dying.

Fíli, his son, his wonderful, adopted son was bleeding out in his lap. And now his eyes were closed. Trying to stop himself from dissolving into hysterics, Bilbo held and glanced at his wife. She looked like her heart was in a vice, too. There were tears streaming down her face, falling from her chin, and no sound fell from her open mouth. Her hands were clasped around Fíli's, and her eyes…

Her eyes were full of anguish, and her eyes were void of hope.

Dís did not move.

Between them, Kíli could not stay still. He was shaking worse than Bilbo, sobbing and rocking back and forward and back and forward and back and forward. His hands were clenched around Fíli's tunic, white knuckles, bloody knuckles.

Wordlessly, Gandalf crashed to his knees on Fíli's other side and began ripping the top of his tunic away to reach the wound. The wizard batted Kíli's hands away, and the younger prince fell against Bilbo, reaching out to entwin his fingers in his brother's hair instead.

"Fee," Kíli keened, "Fíli… my Fee…"

Bilbo let out a sob of his own when he saw the wound properly for the first time. He held onto his son a little tighter, but now that his tunic was gone Fíli's blood slid down the mithril shirt and onto Bilbo's hands.

"Bilbo," Gandalf said gruffly, "help me get this off him, I must see the wound, now!"

Nodding blindly, Bilbo unlocked his arms to lift Fíli up. Dís helped Bilbo to pull what should have saved their son's life over his head as if he was an infant. Their baby. Bilbo had never known Fíli as a baby, and now he feared he would never see him grow any older. The moment that the shirt was gone, Bilbo wrapped his arms back around Fíli's waist. It felt as though maybe, just maybe, if he could hold onto Fíli he could keep his son alive. He could feel the dwarf's chest rising and falling, but it was just a little, so weak, so fast. So shallow. Fíli's breaths were so shallow.

"Gandalf," Bilbo tried to say, but his word caught in his throat. "Gandalf…"

The wizard held his hand over the wound and closed his eyes, murmuring slightly in a language that Bilbo did not know. Then his eyes opened, and he stared at Bilbo, and the hobbit's eyes filled with tears. He started to shake his head, slowly at first, but then more desperately.

"No, no, Gandalf, no, there must be something you can do, oh _Mahal,_ Fíli…" Bilbo gasped, and Dís started to sob. Keening, Kíli dropped his forehead to Fíli's, and then collapsed into Bilbo again and hugged his brother's arm. "Gandalf," Bilbo choked. "Please, please, you have to do _something._ Please… please… There, there must be something… Oh, Fíli… Fíli…"

A tear trailing down his cheek, Gandalf held two shaking hands over Fíli's chest. He began to speak again in that strange language, and Bilbo held his oldest son just a little tighter. Fíli's blood was pooling against his arms, and the hobbit bowed down to press a kiss onto his forehead, and then another on Kíli's. His younger son whimpered and pressed his face into Fíli's shoulder.

Fíli's breaths were getting weaker.

"Hold on, Fíli," Bilbo whispered into Fíli's ear. "Just hold on. Hold on. Don't you leave us now, my boy. Don't you leave us now, not now. Not now." There were too many tears in Bilbo's throat for him to continue, so he bowed his head and he waited.

And waited. And then, before he knew it, the sun began to rise. Gandalf sighed heavily and leant backwards. Bilbo jerked upright, and his heart sank as he saw the wizard cover his bowed face with his hands.

"Gandalf?" Bilbo did not know whether he had gasped or sobbed.

"Don't," Dís choked desperately, tearing her gaze from her son's face for the first time in hours. "Don't stop, don't give- don't give up, please, don't give up on my baby."

"My lady," Gandalf replied, his own voice rather strangled. "I would never, ever give up on your boy. Never. But the wound is severe, and we have lingered here too long already. My strength is waning, and I have only just managed to stop the bleeding."

With a jolt of his heart, Bilbo looked down. Sure enough, there was no fresh blood spilling from Fíli's chest, and the wound seemed to have closed a little.

"That," Kíli said, his voice hoarse, raising his head slightly, "that's good, though isn't it? The bleeding's stopped?"

"It has," Gandalf closed his eyes. "But the wound is severe and poison of a Morgul blade is fierce, and I have not the power to heal him straight away. All… all that I have done is offered him a reprieve."

"What?" Kíli demanded, horror and anger merging in his eyes. "Elladan and Tauriel fixed Bilbo, _he_ was stabbed with a Morgul blade-"

"Kíli, I am weak," the wizard murmured, tears rolling off of his crooked nose. "My strength is not limitless, and my power is not omnipotent. There is only so much I can do, and the fight and healing have drained me. The blade pierced his throat from the inside, Kíli, and nicked a major artery. Such wounds are not easy to coax into healing, even for one as strong as your brother. If… if I rest, I might be able to muster the strength to stay the flow of the poison and stabilise his condition. If that works, we may yet make it to Rivendell on time. But now… I cannot do any more now, my dear Kíli. It would drain me of all my magic for days, and that is a risk we cannot take."

"Cannot take?" cried Kíli, his fists clenching. "This is Fíli, _Fíli,_ he is worth _any_ risk!"

"And if my power is spent, and we are ambushed again I will not be able to banish them," Gandalf said, his voice still calm despite the look on his face. "The same fate may befall me, and you, and your mother and father – who will save us then?"

With a gasping sob, Kíli looked down at his brother, the anger in his eyes dissipating. Then he squeezed his eyes closed. "F-forgive me, Gandalf. I, I didn't mean it. I… I am afraid. Your, your plan, there are so many maybes…"

"I know, my dear Kíli," the wizard smiled sadly, and when he spoke the words seemed to pain him. "Believe me when I say that our best hope is to make for Rivendell with all the speed we have. We do not have long; the four other riders are still out there. If we are lucky I may regain strength before then, and perhaps even find some herbs that may help us. Athelas, the like. And if we are lucky, and Fíli is strong, he may yet survive."

"Athelas?" Bilbo's eyebrows furrowed and his heart began pounding faster again. "Gandalf we have some athelas, I've carried it for years, since the battle, it's in my bag!"

Gandalf's sharp eyes fell on Bilbo, and then his head snapped towards the east where the sun was rising. Slowly, he looked back at Fíli, taking the dwarf's hand in his own. Then he glanced back to the sky, the sudden flare of hope fading. "We have lingered too long already," Gandalf murmured, staring down at Fíli with an expression that could only be described as heartbreak, and suddenly Bilbo understood.

If they moved, Fíli would likely die. If they stayed, they would likely be run down by the rest of the Nazgûl. If they stayed, they may all die.

Not only could they all die, but the Ring of Power would fall into the hands of Sauron.

If they stayed, the whole world could die.

"We must move on," Gandalf said, as if drifting through a nightmare. "I- I cannot save him…"

Dropping his forehead to Fíli's, Bilbo felt his own body wrack with sobs, but no sound escaped his lips. The young dwarf's face was so cold.

But then, only a second after he last spoke, the wizard yelled with a ferocity that made Bilbo, Dís and Kíli all jump. "No! No. This will not end here. Not like this – not this time, not again." There was a fury in Gandalf's eyes that made Bilbo shudder, and for a moment the hobbit felt like he was a world away. The Ring burnt in his pocket. "They will _not_ take another one! Kíli, your father's bag, get it now!"

The younger prince needed no further prompting, and scrambled to his feet, running down the stairs to their belongings and returning within a minute. Gandalf seized the bag without hesitation, and Bilbo's heart felt like a blur in his chest. Even as he watched Gandalf tear open his medicine pouch with delicate fingers, even as terror and blind hope wracked through his body, Bilbo could not help but wonder what Gandalf was talking about. Another one?

Fíli's body jerked when Gandalf first touched the herb to the wound, but then the wizard began talking again, in the language that Bilbo could not recognise. Eyes clouded with worry and weariness, Bilbo did not see what Gandalf was doing.

What he felt was Fíli's stomach, rising and falling a little stronger. His breathing was getting just a little stronger. Just a little. Closing his eyes, Bilbo began to pray.

 **Though this chapter is shorter than usual, I expect that the next one will be longer. I wanted to add another scene, but this just felt like the natural ending point. I hope that you enjoyed it, and I thank you for reading!**

 **Two notes on the content of this chapter – I fully believe that by now Bilbo refers to/thinks of Fíli as his son, and Gandalf's position will be further clarified later. I have given some hints as to why he's not at full power (for lack of a better term) but more will be explained as we go on :)**

 **As a side note – has anyone been having trouble accessing this story? Because when I update, it doesn't seem to appear in the 'Browse' section where it should do, and that's never happened to me before. I hope that it's only been an inconvenience to me, and not to any of you.**

 **I hope you have a lovely day, and please do leave a review if you fancy making my day a little better!**

 **'Come Back to Me' – Les Friction**

 _Do you hear me?_

 _If I sing with Angels_  
 _Will you hear me?_  
 _If I sing with Angels_  
 _Will you cross the line?_

 _I hear your voice, but you're not here._  
 _I walk the halls and I'm alone;_  
 _You're not coming home._

 _I'm holding on til we're out of time._  
 _Would you pierce the veil?_  
 _Would you cross the line?_  
 _I can feel you here, souls redefined,_  
 _I can't let go of our design._

 _Would you pierce the veil?_

 _Would you cross the line?_

 _Come back to me!_


	9. Chapter 9: The Runes at the Ruins

**Hello everyone! I wanted to get this up sooner, but alas, the uni deadline last Friday kind of had to take priority. Anyway, here I am and I hope it's worth the wait. Thanks to those awesome people who've reviewed, it means the world to me!**

 **Please forgive any mistakes I've made in this chapter, as ever.**

 **Read, enjoy and review!**

 **Chapter Nine # The Runes in the Ruins #**

They were making better progress than Bróin had dared to expect. Seven days had passed since leaving Bree, and they had seen neither sight nor sound of the Nazgûl. So far, Aragorn's 'paths seldom trod' seemed to be paying off. But with every hour that passed without sign of their hunters, Bróin grew more uneasy. Especially as the evening wore on, and they approached an old ruined fortress atop a solitary hill.

He had been thinking – something his brother accused him of never doing – about their 'luck' an awful lot, and the silhouette of a crippled tower against a blood-red sky was eerie enough to prompt him to investigate. Gently nudging his foot into Nyla's left side, he urged his wolf towards the front of the group. You had to be careful when riding a wolf – if you dug your heels in too harshly or yanked to hard at their fur they had a tendency to get irritated, buck you off and then refuse to carry you for at least half an hour. Bróin had learnt that the hard way.

Now, though, he was an expert, and it did not take long to reach Aragorn's side at the very front of their group.

"May I speak with you?" Bróin asked.

Looking down, Aragorn raised an eyebrow and twitched half his mouth into a smile. "Given that you don't usually ask for permission, I take it something is on your mind."

Bróin nodded sharply, and glanced around. If people were in earshot – particularly Frodo and Thorin – he could cause them panic. The nearest rider was Vinca, who looked curiously at him. He grinned at her, and then forced a sneeze. In a flash, Nelly was there, pulling her sister away to 'chat'.

"Is everything alright?" Aragorn spoke in a low voice, his half-smile fading.

"I am not sure," Bróin replied, stretching his arm up to stroke the hilt of the sword that was sheathed on his back. "But there's been a worry in my mind, one I can't get rid of. I was thinking – we haven't seen hide or hair of these riders. Could that be because they've already found what they're hunting for?"

Aragorn's hands tightened around the reins and he looked straight ahead. "I hope not," he murmured, "but I have not the answers you seek."

Bróin's shook his head, but he had not expected anything more. Forcing himself not to dwell no the possibilities, he nodded at the ruins ahead. "Is that where we're camping tonight?"

The man nodded. "Weathertop. Once it was the great watchtower of Amon Sûl."

Well, that did not make him feel any better. Off to sleep in the eerie castle. Normally, he would be thrilled at the idea, but normally he only had to worry about himself. And Nelly and Nori. The idea of spending a whole night listening to Bodin whimper about ghosts and demons and monsters was not a pleasant one, especially since Bróin would not blame the child for being scared. He was only twenty-five, after all.

Bróin rolled his neck and his shoulders. "Wouldn't it be wisest to scout it out first?"

"Are you volunteering?" Aragorn's lips twitched into a smile.

"No, no. I'm begging. Never knew it was possible to get stir crazy in the great outdoors."

Aragorn laughed. "Of course. Do not go alone-"

"Pfft, course I won't!" Bróin scoffed, glancing over his shoulder. "Nell, we're on scout duty."

His best friend gave a mock salute and rode over on her own wolf. "Off to check out the creepy dead hill place?"

"The old fortress of my ancestors," drawled Aragorn without malice. "Yes."

"Righty-ho," she grinned at Bróin. "Let's be off, then!"

The pair urged their wolves into a run, and Bróin felt just a little of his frustration leave him. Waiting to be attacked and worrying about his family were not agreeing with him, and for days he had grown more and more restless. Now, at least, he was doing something helpful.

And riding on the back of a speeding wolf was never less than thrilling.

Breathing the sharp air, Bróin rolled his neck again and felt excitement trickle through his veins. Here was a little slice of freedom, a little chance to scare each other with a creepy old castle, or spar properly without sending Ellie into heart failure.

Here was a little chance to simply breathe.

He glanced to his right, where Nelly was riding two strides ahead of him – as usual. She grinned, and tossed her dark blonde hair over her shoulder. Like many dwarves, Nelly favoured a half-up, half-down hairstyle when she was on the road. Several braids met at the back of her head, keeping her hair from falling in her face, while the rest hung free to bounce as they pleased. In the fading sunlight, the curls glowed.

 _Damn,_ he thought, _it's happening. Nelly's getting prettier hair than me._

Running a hand through his own wild hair, he grinned back at her, and pushed his heels into Nyla's side. The wolf lurched forward, overtaking Nelly and Kya with ease. Well, it was easy for a few moments, before Nelly cried out with an evil smile and her own wolf sped up too.

They did not slow until they began to climb the hill, and by the time they reached the edge of the ruined walls, both wolves were panting. Staring up at the dark, old stone, Bróin dismounted and rubbed his wolf's ears.

"Well done, girl. You wait here, it's alright. We'll yell if there's trouble – you deserve a rest," he crooned, fishing a bit of dried meat from the bag on his waist and feeding it to her.

"Aye, you almost beat us this time," Nelly said, rubbing noses with her own wolf. "Well done, Kya…"

Rolling his eyes, Bróin removed his backpack and left it beside Nyla. Nelly did the same, rolling her shoulders and making sure that she was free to move.

"I have to say," she said, gazing up at the walls, "this is not a very welcoming campsite. Strategic, I s'pose. But rather eerie. I bet it scares the living daylights out of the little ones."

"Aye," Bróin agreed. "But let's go! quicker we scout, the quicker we can spar. Or find rocks to put in Bofin's bedroll."

Nelly laughed, the sound feeling almost out of place. Together, they entered the old fortress, and methodically checked chamber after razed chamber. The evening was drawing quickly in, and it got darker as they rose higher and higher towards the top of the tower.

Undeterred, the pair cleared the rooms in comfortable silence, broken by an occasional joke or anecdote, like when an oddly shaped rock reminded Nelly of playing pirates with Bilbo's fine crockery and washing up water.

Up and up they climbed, finding no sign of life until they reached a small side room. Sheltered from the outside, there was the remains of a fire, one that could not be older than three or four days.

"Perhaps the others were here," Nelly's eyes lit up as soon as she saw it. "It makes sense, doesn't it, that Gandalf would lead them the way that Aragorn is leading us? And that they made the fire in here, where you wouldn't see from the plains."

"Aye. Pity they didn't leave something to eat. I'm starving."

"You've the stomach of a hobbit, Bro, you're always starving."

"Sometimes, I think that I truly do."

They soon reached the very top of the fortress, and Bróin looked out over the plains in every direction. Their company were nearing the base of the hill now, and there was nothing to see for miles – not with his eyes, in any case. A large rock stood just off centre of the circular stone floor, and something about it caught Bróin's eye.

There was red on the side, a few dull flecks that were just about visible in the fading light. He walked over, expecting to find some odd pink moss that Nelly would undoubtedly be able to name.

Then he saw what it was.

Blood. A lot of blood. As his heartbeat quickened, his mind began to race. The largest stain would have been a pool before it dried – and it looked large enough to be dangerous, maybe even fatal, depending on the race of the victim. There was a line on the edge, a rather distinct one, as if something or someone had stopped the blood from flowing in all directions. It did not take long for Bróin to deduce that someone had been lying there. Lying there and bleeding, heavily. There were smaller stains too, some the size of his palm and others smaller than a baby's tooth.

There was so much blood.

"Nell…"

"What?" There was a pause. "Is something wrong?"

"Someone's been hurt here."

"What?" she rushed over, only to stop dead at his side. "By Durin... That's a lot of blood…"

"Ringwraiths don't bleed. Orcs bleed black blood. So it's…"

Nelly flashed an alarmed look at him and crouched down, inspecting the blood more closely. "It looks like a couple of days old, at least. As old… as old as that campfire, maybe. You don't think-"

"I don't know," he chewed on the inside of his cheek and offered weakly, "It could have been anyone that came through here. The chances that someone we know-"

"Bro," Nelly's voice sounded oddly thick. "Bróin, there are footprints here."

His courage stumbled. "Footprints?"

"Bare. Bare, hobbit footprints."

Bróin's heart dropped through to his own toes and he stared at where Nelly was pointing. There they were, a couple of blurred but distinctive prints in the dark, red, blood. Moving closer, he knew in his mind and his gut that they belonged to a hobbit. Nelly was right.

"It… it's survivable, isn't it? I mean, there is a lot of blood but if it is one of ours _Gandalf_ was with them, Gandalf could help surely," she declared. Bróin knew he was not the one she was trying to convince.

"I hope so."

Nelly took a deep breath and stood up. She began tiptoeing around, searching the stone for clues with keen eyes and a grim look on her face, while Bróin turned his gaze back to the lands surrounding them. It was now so dark that he could hardly see their companions, who had reached the base of the hill by now. He searched further out, trying in vain to see through the darkness.

"Bróin!" Nelly gasped, and he turned quickly. "Bróin, get over here!"

He ran to her side, beside the large rock that had initially hidden the blood from their view. Her fingers were lingering upon the stone beneath two carved runes that Bróin had not noticed earlier. Runes he knew all too well. His blood ran cold, and he exchanged a look with Nelly. There was fear shining freely in her eyes now.

One was the mark of Durin's folk, and the other a symbol that represented a whole word in Khuzdul.

Iznishî.

 _Fly._

"It was them," she whispered, "one of our Bagginses is hurt, Bro, they're in trouble!"

"And so are we." Automatically he took her arm in his hand and began to back away. "We cannot stay here, not here."

Nelly hesitated. "What're we going to tell the others?"

"The truth," Bróin tugged her arm, his eyes called back to the blood. _Whose blood?_ "We'll tell them the others were here, and that they left a message and we have to go, now."

"But it's dark," Nelly protested, even as they began to run back through the fortress, "they will not want to go, the little ones-"

"We'll have to make them," Bróin gritted his teeth and vaulted over a piece of fallen stone. The wolves apparently heard them coming, for they were standing up and alert when the pair tumbled from the door of the fortress. Bróin whistled for them to follow and they flew down the hill to where their friends were congregating.

"We have to leave!" Nelly cried to Aragorn. "We cannot stay here, we must go, now!"

"What?" Thorin was the first to growl a reply. "Why?"

"The others were here," Bróin explained, trying to catch his breath around his words. "They left a message. Runes."

"Fly. They said to fly," Nelly shuddered and glanced at Bróin.

"But was anyone there?" the dwarf king pressed.

"No," allowed Nelly, "it was empty, but-"

"We are weary, child. We must rest soon."

"Aye, but not here," Bróin insisted.

"Why?" Dwalin demanded. "What danger lies in these walls? Are they haunted, Aragorn?"

"No," the man said slowly. "What are you not telling us?"

Bróin and Nelly looked at each other, and Bróin took a deep breath. "Blood. There's blood up there. A lot of it."

Murmurs ran through the group and Thorin's eyes widened.

"Whose blood?"

"We don't know," Nelly's voice was far quieter than usual. "Something bad happened here – we should move on."

"Why," Thorin said slowly, "would they tell us to run? If the danger they faced was pursuing _them_ , why would they think it dangerous for _us_ to stay here? These runes, where were they?"

"On a stone at the very top of the fortress. By the blood."

Nodding slowly, the king looked at Aragorn and then Dwalin. "Loathe am I to linger where Gandalf would advise to run – we learnt that lesson in the Trollshaws. But why would our kin mark a stone at the very top of the fortress, a place we may not have even visited? Aye, they might suppose we sent scouts, but why not mark the doors, mark it sooner?"

The fist clenched around Bróin's stomach twisted slightly. "You think it may be a trap?"

"I do not know. But unless they sprouted wings and flew from Weathertop, I cannot see why they would not leave a sign as she left through the door."

"If they were not left by the others," Dwalin said slowly, as if he did not want to give voice to the thoughts in his mind, "and the blood is indeed one of ours... That could bode very ill for the Bagginses."

Bróin heard Frodo groan, and turned to see his cousin put his face in his hands.

"Well?" Thorin turned to Aragorn. "You are our guide. What do you deem wisest?"

The ranger seemed rather uncomfortable at being put on the spot, but he sat up a little straighter in his saddle and replied. "I would ride through the night. Keep going until dawn – rest then. But the children-"

"Will cope," Elza spoke for the first time, running a hand over her daughter's hair. "They will cope. Let's just leave this place, please."

Thorin nodded at Aragorn. "Lead on, friend."

Bróin could not help but catch the fear in the glance that Thorin sent to Weathertop as they turned away. He and Nelly remounted their wolves and joined the group, and Bróin fell in beside his younger brother. Bodin was staring fearfully over his shoulder at the ruins, but he kept yawning. He had insisted that he was old enough to ride his own pony, but Bróin could see him falling off sometime soon, so he seized the back of Bodin's tunic and pulled him onto the front of Nyla.

"Sorry girl," he murmured to the wolf, ignoring Bodin's spluttered protest. The dwarfling soon stopped complaining – the silence was contagious, and no one seemed to want to talk.

There were no stars that night. Just clouds and darkness.

And then, as the moon rose to its peak, the unmistakeable sound of an orc horn.

* * *

They had not stopped riding in three days, and now they were slowing down. It seemed to Dís that Gandalf was running out of magic words to keep the wolves and horse going.

The sun was rising over the forest on the horizon, and Dís pressed a kiss onto her son's clammy forehead.

They had not stopped riding in three days, and Fíli had not yet woken.

Dís and Kíli took it in turns to have Fíli on the front of their wolves – the last thing they wanted to do would be to wear out a wolf by burdening it with two riders, or to fall asleep and drop the injured prince. Not that either of them were sleeping. Bilbo had dozed off a couple of times, but not for long. Never for long. Every time that he woke, he looked for her, for Fíli, and every time she looked back she saw his hope dwindle.

She gazed down at her son. Her baby, her little lion heart. He was so pale, so still, but he was breathing. Her hand was on his chest, beneath the cloak Bilbo had put over Fíli. She could feel her son's heartbeat, and that was the only thing that allowed Dís to keep riding.

Well, no. That was not strictly true. If losing Kíli had taught her anything, it was that she would endure. It would be pain worse than imagining, and her body and soul would break down, but she would continue to exist, lingering in an emptier world to help what family she had left.

If Fíli was gone, Dís knew that she would want to die herself. But she would not die. She would live for Kíli, for her husband, her brother, her family, her people – but she would spend every day wishing just a little to be dead.

Because this was not about her. Fíli, her bright, beautiful boy, did not deserve to die like this. He was not five years past a hundred, not five years past coming of age. He had achieved – and suffered – so much, and he deserved better. There was so much he could do, so much he could achieve.

So many laughs to be shared. So many hugs to give. So many hours to spend with his loved ones.

"We will stop soon," Gandalf called, snapping Dís from her thoughts. "As soon as we reach the woods."

She let out a long breath she did not know she had been holding and closed her eyes.

"Hang on, dushtêl," Dís murmured into her baby's ear. Her voice hurt from a lack of use, but it did not stop her. "Don't you leave your Amad now. I love you more than my life, my darling."

Fili's lolling head shifted slightly, moving upwards, and Dís stopped breathing. It could not be – the motion of the running wolf must have – Fíli's mouth opened a little, and his face turned further towards Dís' chest.

"Fíli," she whispered, before clearing her throat and speaking more loudly. "Fíli, dushtêl, can you hear me?" She thought that she heard a soft groan, and her heart quickened. "Fíli?"

Fíli's eyelids crinkled and flickered, and he let out a whine-like sound. It was quiet and weak, but it was audible.

"It's Amad, Fíli," Dís stroked Fíli's hair with a shaking hand as his face pressed gently against her. "It's Amad, you're safe now. Safe now, baby." Inside her chest, her heart was so fast that she could not feel individual beats, and it felt like all of the air was leaking from her lungs, but hope was kindled, and –

Eyelids crunching up as though he were in pain, Fíli groaned. She could feel his chest falling more deeply and rising more strongly, and tears fell from her cheeks to her son's golden hair.

"Fíli, dushtêl, that's right, just hold on."

"A…" Fíli's dry, cracked lips moved unmistakeably, the sound was him and Dís let out a relieved sob of her own. "Am… Am…"

"I'm here, I'm here, Fíli," she whispered, looking up. The trees were drawing nearer, and to her right, Kíli was slumped over on Luno. His face was hidden in the wolf's fur, but Dís knew that he was not asleep.

Kíli had not slept a wink since Fíli had been stabbed, and it was taking its toll. She would have thought he had finally succumbed, if it were not for the way that the hand nearest to her flicked through various Iglishmêk symbols.

She wanted, more than anything, to yell, to say that Fíli was waking up, but her scarred heart knew better. Sometimes, those who had slept for days spoke in their sleep.

And it was not always a sign of recovery.

Biting her tongue, she murmured into Fíli's ear. "Hold on, Fíli, we're nearly there now. Nearly there. You're going to be alright, you're going to be just fine. I promise. Just a little further…"

Finally, they rode into the forest. Almost as soon as they passed beneath the boughs, Gandalf called them to a halt. All three wolves collapsed straight to the floor, panting, and Gandalf's horse waited only for its rider to dismount before slumping down itself. Holding Fíli like a babe in her arms was far from easy now, but she carried him over to a nearby tree and sat down.

"Fíli?" she said, running her fingers through his hair.

The wounded prince took a deep breath, deeper than any she had seen in days. And then, he screamed, a strangled, pained sound. Fíli began to thrash in her lap, but with rising panic Dís realised that these were not the right words, scream and thrash. There was strength in a scream, in a thrash, but there was no strength in Fíli. His flailing felt like that of a babe, and his cries sounded so weak.

Before she could blink, Kíli was beside her, seizing his brother's hand. "Fee! Fíli!"

"Gandalf!" Dís yelled needlessly – the wizard was already bustling over, a pale Bilbo at his heels.

His head lolling to the side, Fíli cried out again. His eyelids were opening, but showed only the whites of his eyes. What hope Dís had felt bled away, and the wizard knelt beside them, passing his hand over Fíli's face, and then his wound.

The wizard's face relaxed, and he began to speak quietly, words that Dís could not understand. Bilbo and Kíli, however, looked up, and seemed to be following his every word. Elvish, then, he was speaking in Elvish.

Slowly, Fíli stopped fighting. His body relaxed, his breathing slowed, and he slumped against his mother. All but lifeless, again.

"The wound is healing," Gandalf said, his voice as tight. "But I have not the strength to chase another nightmare away, should it strike."

"Nightmare?" Bilbo whispered, his eyes puffy and red.

"If he's healing," Kíli croaked, "why won't he wake?"

Gandalf nodded his head at Fíli, and Dís stared at her son's face. Dawn's light was beginning to poke through the leaves, and the first thing it fell on was Fíli's golden hair. The next thing was his opening eyes.

For a moment, the glazed eyes explored without focus, but then they met Dís', and the shadow of a smile twitched at Fíli's lip. "A…Am…Ama…"

Dís sobbed, and pushed her forehead into his. She wanted to say so much, but the words got stuck on her tears.

"Fee?" Kíli whimpered, and the bleary blue eyes made their way to the younger prince.

This time, Fíli's smile lingered for a moment. "K…Kíli…"

Kíli gave a strange, strangled laugh. "I'm here, I'm here Fee."

"Wh-wha' happened?" Fíli asked with the voice of a sleep-talker. "Bil…Bilbo-"

While Kíli gave a stammering, tearful account of the events on Weathertop, Bilbo, like Dís, seemed incapable of speech. He just sat beside Fíli and cried, rubbing circles into their older son's hand. Well, the hand that had not been stolen by Kíli.

Relief and joy shone so brightly in Dís' heart that it hurt. Fíli was awake, he was healing. He would _live._

She glanced at Gandalf, but her thanks died with her smile. The wizard was leaning against a nearby tree, breathing heavily and trembling. In the gathering light he looked pale, and his eyes were half-closed. There was still a frail look to him, as there had been since he arrived in Bag End, but it was more pronounced that it had been before Weathertop.

He was still as sharp as ever, it seemed, for he caught her gaze and smiled at her. Despite the fact that he looked like a walking corpse, Gandalf's eyes were twinkling.

"I am spent, my lady," he said. It sounded as though every word was an effort. "We have travelled far, and your son is not in pain, for now. The athelas did its job. He will live. But the effort has drained me, and I must rest. We must rest."

Dís nodded, shaking a few tears from her chin in the process. "Thank you, Gandalf."

The wizard's smile was strong as he nodded, but Dís did not miss the pain that flashed across his eyes before he closed them.

"I'll take first watch," Bilbo said, his voice hollow. "I slept a little on the ride."

That was a lie, but Dís was too drained to argue, so she leant over and kissed the hobbit. "Thank you," she whispered, and he smiled wearily at her.

"Of course," he murmured.

They managed to keep Fíli awake long enough for him to eat and drink a little, but the wizard promised that they had nothing to fear when Fíli slipped back into sleep.

"The magic worked better than anyone could have hoped for, with the help of the athelas," he assured them. "He will need to sleep a lot, to recover his strength and allow the wound to fully heal. He is stable."

Stable. Such a beautiful, beautiful word. Dís wanted to sing it to the heavens, but her throat hurt and she did not think her companions would appreciate it.

The last thing that Dís saw before she let herself drift into slumber was Kíli, curled up at his brother's side.

Fast asleep.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter! If you have any queries with anything please do bring them up – I have this story planned in more detail than anything I have ever written, but I want to make sure I'm not leaving any unintentional holes.**

 **Please do leave me some feedback if you'd like, I appreciate it so much and it is just amazing to have your support :)**

 **Another Author Note: I have emailed fanfiction three times regarding my story not appearing the Browse Section and they still haven't replied :/ does anyone have any idea what's going on and how I can fix it? Thank you (and don't worry if not) :D**

 **Thank you for reading :D**


	10. Chapter 10: The Innocents' Warrior

**Guess who's back? We had a bit of a longer break here, sorry about that. This chapter is a fairly short one, but it's given me such grief writing it – the writer's block has been crazy and I didn't know how best I wanted to show you guys the scene. I hope you enjoy the end result!**

 **Anyways, thank you so much for the amazing response to the last chapter, and as ever, please forgive my inevitable mistakes. Also, a massive thanks to johnsarmylady, who pointed out that the story's 'M' rating means it won't show up on the usual browser page - thank you for pointing that out!**

 **Read, enjoy, review!**

 **Chapter Ten # The Innocents' Warrior #**

The first thing to pass through Pippin's mind when a loud horn made him jump from his seat was that it was a terrible time for a marching band. The second thought, prompted by the immediate, muted cries of his companions, was that it would be a rather suitable time to panic.

He could see very little in the pale moonlight, since they had doused their torches upon leaving Weathertop. No need to draw attention to themselves, Thorin had said. Craning over his shoulder, Pippin could just about make out the oncoming hoard of orcs charging their way. From the size and shape he guessed that there would be wargs, too, and his heart began to dive repeatedly into his stomach.

Clutching his pony's reins, he stared up to the front of the group. Thorin, Dwalin, Aragorn – they would know what to do. They must know what to do…

It was Aragorn that let out the cry.

"Hold ranks!" he said. "Do not flee."

" _Don't_ flee?" Orla cried, her little face so pale that it seemed made of moonlight.

Mist left his mouth in short bursts. Pippin tried to slow his breathing, to unbuckle his sword but his fingers were shaking and he did not know what to do –

"Form ranks!" it was Thorin, this time, who gave the order. " _Ûhaskhajam-okilondin!"_

The phrase punched Pippin in the stomach. For a moment, he saw Fíli and his father melting away into a dark forest, and he saw Fíli's blood on his hands. No – that was not important now. Ghosts of _that_ night had been banished for years, and Pippin could not lose his head now because Thorin had given the order to 'save the children.'

His fingers fumbled with the reins, bringing his pony towards the centre of the group. It was a rank they had practised many a time on the journey over. A drill, a game, a just in case. Now it was the real thing. On his way to the second ring, Bróin threw Bodin onto Pippin's horse. The hobbit caught the dwarfling easily – he had been expecting it. Bodin may have lived the same number of years as Pippin, but the dwarfling was still very much a child, and now Pippin had to take care of him.

The orcs' jeers grew closer, but he could no longer see them. He and Vinca were in the centre of the group. Bodin was in Pippin's arms, and Frerin and Eyja both clung to his youngest sister. The twins' pony stood in between Pippin's and Vinca's – they were the core. The most vulnerable.

The safest, and the guiltiest. In a tight ring around them were the other tweens, and then the adults spiralled out around them, from Ellie closest to the middle all the way out to Dwalin at the front. Aragorn rode forward, and glanced over his shoulder.

There was a wild look in his eye, though his mouth was set in a hard line.

"For as long as you can," he said, "hold ranks."

With that, he charged. The hooves of his horse thundered against the hard ground, and Pippin's heart seemed to pound to the same beat. A flame slashed the air, and Pippin realised that the man had lit a torch to wield in his left hand. The sword in his other hand caught the light, and glowed red.

For a moment, Pippin was reminded fiercely of Fíli and his dual swords.

And then Aragorn leapt off his horse, which careened back to the company. The man kept running forward until he was sixty paces from the others, and then he met the orcs, and the fight began. The man swung down with his sword, and Pippin watch the first orc's head fly. Several wargs rode past Aragorn, only to be shot down by bows and slingshots from the waiting dwarves.

Pippin barely saw them. He could not take his eyes away from Aragorn, blazing a way through the pack of wargs with fire and sword. On his left, orcs and wargs were burning, and on his right they were crumpling to the ground. Nothing seemed to touch Aragorn – he ducked and spun and danced away from every blow that Pippin saw coming.

 _Please,_ Pippin thought, _please, Aragorn, please be alright, please let it be over! Let it end, just let it end…_

He wished to see the others ride forward and help, but Aragorn had commanded them not to – hold ranks, he said. And Pippin was sure that Aragorn knew best

With a shriek that made the little ones cry, a fire-shrouded orc tore through its own pack, and Pippin saw the pack begin to scatter. A couple of wargs approached the group, and Soren, Dwalin and Ehren broke from the outermost ring, charging forward to take them down.

Dwalin's battle cry rang out over the shrieks of the orcs, and on Vinca's pony the warrior's two children screamed. For the first time in his life, Frerin was screaming louder than his sister.

 _Pippin was hanging over the shoulder of a young man he did not know, and his Fíli's blood was all over his hands, and his Papa was getting further and further away. Gimli ran beside him and there were orcs coming, and Pippin could not understand why his father and Fíli were not running too._

 _"Papa!" Pippin cried, stretching out his tiny hands over Estel's shoulders._

"Adad!" Frerin cried, stretching out his tiny hands over the front of Vinca's pony. Pippin's sister had to grab him and hold him close to stop him from launching over the pony's head.

Pippin did not know what to do. He was the one who was looked after, comforted, protected. _He_ had been the baby, until he outgrew Bodin and the smaller ones were born – no one had taught Pippin how to be the protector. But in front of him, Bodin was trembling, and so Pippin wrapped his arms around his little cousin and held on for dear life.

 _Crying and crying and crying, Pippin clung to Fíli's arm as the bad dwarves and bad orcs did nasty things. And made_ them _do nasty things. Pippin never wanted to ever cut nasty letters into Fíli's back but the bad ones made him._

 _"Don't worry about it," Fíli said to Gimli. "Worse things happen in the mines, you know-"_

 _Then Fíli screamed, so loud and with so much pain that Pippin held on tighter. His Fíli was hurting. And then there were two hands tugging at him, and though he held on for dear life, Pippin was ripped away._

Pippin shook his head. His family thought he had forgotten the memories, and he knew that the current moment was much more important than the scary story of his past.

He focused his eyes ahead, and saw something that made his heart jolt. Dwalin, Soren and Ehren were moving slowly towards a single, upright figure, surrounded by a sea of corpses. Was it over?

It could not be over so quickly, could it?

Aragorn was standing, swaying slightly, like a single stalk of corn that survived a thunderstorm. He turned, the low burning torch still in his hand, and took a shaky step towards the group. He swayed again. It looked as though he was about to collapse.

Pippin's heart stumbled in its race. "Aragorn…"

It seemed that Dwalin had noticed the danger – he was running hard towards the man. Pippin wanted to ride forward himself, the threat had passed now, surely, but when he tried to move forward Nelly blocked him and shook her head.

For once, Pippin did not argue with his sister. Instead, he swallowed and held on a little tighter to Bodin. He could feel Bombur's son crying now. What would Merry say?

"It's alright," he whispered. "We're going to be fine."

Bodin just sniffled.

A long whistle pierced the air and Pippin's head snapped back up. Aragorn's horse responded immediately to his call, galloping from the back of the group to his master's side. The man collapsed against the horse, leaning on its side, and then Dwalin reached him, putting his hand on the small of the man's back.

They were much too far away for Pippin to hear words, but he saw Dwalin help Aragorn up onto his horse, and then they walked slowly back.

Frerin was still screaming. "Adad! _Adad! Adad!"_

The moment that he reached the group, Dwalin pushed through the ranks and took the squirming child in his arms.

"Enough," he growled gently, "that's enough screaming, lad."

Frerin shoved his face into his father's shoulder. "Thought you were gonna go way. Like Sigin'adad left you."

Dwalin rocked his son on his hip, pressing his face gently against Frerin's.

Pippin felt a lump in his throat, and he automatically looked for his own father. Paladin was staring right at him, and smiled sadly. Returning the smile as convincingly as he could, Pippin helped Bodin into his uncle Bofur's arms.

"Ah, lad, it'll take more than fifty orcs to take this Adad away." The dwarf paused, and held out his arm towards Aragorn. "Anyway, this gem of a man took them all down, almost single handed! Gandalf knew what he was doing."

Pippin looked over to Aragorn. The man was holding his left arm close to his chest, and his smile was weary and pained. Still, he looked more tired than hurt.

"Where's Bali?" Frerin demanded suddenly, commanding Pippin's attention again.

"He didn't make it," said Dwalin.

Frerin's lower lip wobbled. "No… I want Bali!"

"It was a noble death, for a pony," Dwalin assured his son.

Pippin had not noticed that they had lost a pony. Soren and Ehren were still mounted. He looked out, and saw the pale white shape of the creature that Frerin had named for his Uncle Balin. The hobbit's heart sank – he grew very fond of their ponies. A pony was not a cart, or a mechanical vehicle. It was a living, feeling thing, that you could quickly love – a thing that would love you back, especially if you fed it enough apples.

Pippin patted his own pony's neck.

"We should not linger," Thorin said. He looked oddly pale. "Dwalin, take one of the baggage ponies-"

"Too slow," Aragorn murmured. He seemed almost dazed. "We should leave immediately."

"No problem," Vinca said, "Dwalin can ride Pippin's pony."

Pippin blinked. "What?"

"You'll ride with me," she said.

For a moment, Pippin was irritated, but then he saw the benefit of this, and hopped off of his pony. He clambered up behind his sister and leant against her back, closing his eyes. They were safe now.

By the time they began to ride again, he was snoring.

"It's been twenty odd years," Paladin said, his eyes on his son, "and I still have no idea how he does that – dropping off to sleep as if nothing's happened…"

"But that raises a question," Esmeralda replied, edging her pony on to ride beside Aragorn's. "When can we rest? Pippin is wont to sleep where he chooses – why, I've seen him keep hiking in his sleep before – but the rest of us are not so skilled. When the adrenalin fades, it won't be long before someone falls off a pony. Or a horse, by the looks of _you_."

"Esme…" Paladin groaned.

"No offense," Esme rolled her eyes, pleased to note that Aragorn was smiling.

"None taken, my lady," he bowed his head, his smile fading. "In response to your question, I do not know. I fear that it will be several miles before we are able to find any real cover, and we may not be so lucky again. Those orcs were trained for pillaging – not battling warriors. Should we come across soldiers, we would be in greater trouble. What's more, I do not doubt there are more of them out there. A party of fifty odd orcs, to tackle a guarded group of thirty? But we cannot ride forever…"

"We should get out of sight of the corpses," came Thorin's strong, steady voice. "Rest then, 'til morning, and then make for Rivendell with all the speed we can muster."

No one had the strength to argue. In scarce half an hour, they had found a slight outcrop on the back of a small hill, and had set up camp. They had three people on each watch, to lower the risk of tired eyes closing, but they met no more foes that night.

When daybreak came and they found themselves in one piece, they set off at once, eating their meagre breakfast on horseback. Their ponies were not too happy, but were spurred on by the elvish words that Aragorn would call over the group now and again. The wolves were coping better, being used to long journeys, but their tails hung lower than usual.

The company pushed their beasts as hard as they dared, riding until the daylight was through and taking the most sheltered camps they could during nights of fitful sleep. Finally, Aragorn let out a soft cry of relief, and led them to the ford of the Bruinen.

Then, earlier than any could have hoped for, the hunted group of lords and ladies made their way into Rivendell.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter! It's not my favourite but plot demanded it be here, and I think it's okay :) It might seem a little anti-climactic, but there is a reason for that :D**

 **As a quick note, I know there are LOADS of characters right now. Very soon, things will be split into much smaller groups and that should be easier to follow. I'm also working on some sort of chart to help you guys know who's who in a pinch, but uni work takes priority right now :)**

 **Anyway, yes, I hope that you enjoyed this chapter and I hope that the next one will be up fairly soon. Please, if you would like, leave a review. They mean the world to me, they really do.**


	11. Chapter 11: Heal Over

**Hello everyone, I'm back! The wait was a little longer than I anticipated, but I'm here now! Thanks for the lovely reviews for the last chapter, and welcome aboard if you're new :D I hope that you enjoy this chapter, and please forgive any of my mistakes.**

 **Note, this chapter makes reference to a lullaby from** ** _Strangers Like Me_** **that Bilbo sang for Frodo. Only the first verse is outlined in this chapter, so if you want to read the whole song that I wrote, check out Chapter 111 of** ** _Strangers Like Me._**

 **Speaking of songs, the song that inspired this chapter's title is called 'Heal Over' by KT Tunstall, and the lyrics are at the bottom for anyone who is interested. It's a beautiful song that sums sup what I was going for in this chapter :)**

 **Read, enjoy, review!**

 **Chapter Eleven # Heal Over #**

There were birds singing, and Fíli was suspended in warm, dark nothingness. All that existed was the sound; light and beautiful and calming as a lullaby. Then, slowly, he became aware of his body. He could feel every part, every cell, and he could feel something beneath him, grounding him. It drew him down from the nothingness, and he felt a dull, aching pain in his chest. The void around him seemed to grow lighter, and he noticed an unfamiliar scent of foreign flowers.

Bag End. That was where he must be. There were birds singing, the scent of flowers, and he rarely woke to such delicate beauty in Erebor.

Wondering vaguely why it was taking him so long to wake up, Fíli savoured a deep breath, and let his eyes continue to rest. He could tell now that his bedroom curtains were open, for that was why it seemed lighter even beneath his eyelids, and that meant that it was time to start the day.

Fíli was not quite ready to start the day yet. The soft nothingness he had awoken to was still clinging to him, and he did not want to leave it just yet. It was stronger than sleep, and a thousand times more satisfying, and he longed to return, if only for a moment.

His ears were harder to command to rest, and they picked up the sound of someone sniffing. The last remnants of the nothingness dripped away, and Fíli sighed again.

Opening his eyes, he blinked a few times. Then, when he saw the ceiling, he blinked again. Beams? Why were there dark wooden beams on a flat ceiling in Bag End? That was not right at all…

A sense of dread took seed in Fíli's stomach, growing like a vine up through to his throat to choke him. Something had happened, something bad. Where was he?

There was a sharp intake of breath from his right. "Fíli?"

Kíli. Fíli turned his head to the side, smiling slightly at the sight of his brother – though he noted it looked like Kíli had not seen a comb in weeks. "That's my name…" his voice was more of rasp, but it was not painful. In fact, save the dull throb of his shoulder, he felt no pain at all. "Where are we?"

"Rivendell," Kíli gave a weary smile. "We made it, though we worried for a time that you wouldn't."

All at once, Fíli remembered. Riding from the Shire, from Bree, Weathertop, the Ringwraiths – it all came back to him like a long forgotten nightmare. He remembered the blade diving deep into his chest, and he touched that soft, white bandage that covered it. He should be in more pain, surely, but then he remembered the wonders of elven pain tonics, and things began to make more sense.

There was a darkness in Kíli's eyes, a haunted pain that made Fíli's heart hurt. He reached out, surprised by how easy it was, and took his brother's hand. "I'm sorry I worried you." After a long moment, he spoke again. "Rivendell? I cannot remember reaching Rivendell…"

"You were unconscious," said Kíli. "Drifted in and out of sleep for days, though Gandalf said you were stable. Four Nazgûl caught up with us at the Bruinen, and you grew colder then, but something Gandalf or the Elves did sent the river into a frenzy, and they were swept away downstream. It wasn't until we got here that you seemed able to truly rest. Elrond put you into a deeper sleep – he said you'd heal sooner that way."

Recollections of nightmares poked at Fíli's mind, but they did not seem very frightening in the light of day. He sat himself up in bed and rolled his shoulders. The pain in his chest grew, but it was bearable. "He was right, it seems. I feel quite well."

"I am glad to hear it," Kíli squeezed Fíli's hand. "The others, the others will be too."

Fíli swallowed. "That bad?" Kíli nodded, and his grip grew tighter around Fíli's fingers. He did not speak. "Did you say others? Do you mean Gandalf and Amad and Bilbo, or are the others here too?"

"Both," Kíli nodded, rubbing his sleeve across his eyes. "Gandalf is resting, Amad and Bilbo are at dinner, I think. The others got here yesterday, and without too much trouble, too. They had a run in with some orcs, but they all got out fine, though we lost Bali."

"Frerin's pony?" Fíli said. "How's he taken it?"

"Not well, but he'll be alright. They've all been in to see you, mind, but Elrond wouldn't let them stay long lest we wake you."

"But are you well?" Fíli pressed. He could not see any injuries, but one could never tell with Kíli. He had a terrible habit of hiding these things. "Amad, Bilbo, Gandalf – were you injured after I…"

"No, no, we're fine. Though Gandalf has been resting the last three days." Kíli's eyes betrayed his worry.

Fíli frowned. "Three days?"

"Aye. He spent much of his power and energy, he said. Saving you."

Fíli thought of how weak the wizard had looked when he first arrived at Bag End, how weary he had been on the journey. Feeling rather guilty, Fíli rubbed at his collar, feeling the dressing beneath his fingertips. Another thought – a frightening one – arrived. "Kíli… If it spent _Gandalf's_ energy, just how bad, how bad was it?"

Kíli shifted in his seat, and Fíli waited. His brother did not like talking about injuries that befell his loved ones, but Fíli had to know. He had to. After a long moment, Kíli sighed, and spoke to the floor. "It was a Morgul Blade. Like the one that stabbed Bilbo in the Battle of Five Armies. But it hit, it hit your throat. You were choking. And one of your major arteries was nicked. You, it… Gandalf did not think he would be able to save you."

By the last word, Kíli's voice was nothing more than a whisper, and Fíli felt cold all over. Then he took a deep breath, and focused on the Mind Healer's words. He had _survived._ "But, he did. I'm alright." Kíli nodded, but there were tears fleeing down his cheeks now. Smiling sadly, Fíli lifted his hand up and knocked them away. "Hey, now, Kíli, don't cry. I'm alright. All things considered, I feel wonderful, truly." His brother let out a little laugh, with a half hopeful smile. "I'll be fine, Kee. Out of the two of us, who lies about injuries more?"

Kíli snorted. "That's below the belt, brother. I've got better."

"Aye, you have," Fíli said. "I'm proud of you."

"You should lie back down," said Kíli, sighing. "I wasn't supposed to keep you talking or worrying, if you woke up."

"You're doing all the worrying for me," Fíli replied, though he was still concerned about the wizard. In truth, he had been since Gandalf returned – he was clearly far from well, and Fíli hoped that the wizard had not suffered too much from healing him.

"All the same, I'd rather you rested. Healed up properly."

"Really, Kíli," Fíli laughed. "I feel fine. There's scarce any pain, I feel rested now, better than I have since we left the Shire."

"You almost died, Fee. It was a matter of _seconds,_ of _fractions_ of an inch. Do me a favour, nadad, listen to Lord Elrond," Kíli's voice was sombre, and his lower lip was trembling. "Please, don't make it worse."

"Alright," Fíli said, lying back down for his brother's sake, though he thought it rather unnecessary. "It's alright now, Kíli." Kíli's teeth ground together, and Fíli continued. "I mean, yes, our father has the Ring of Power, I have an injury and our wizard is tired, but other than that-"

Luckily, Kíli laughed. Fíli knew that his attempts at humour could go the wrong way with Kíli in such a state. Not that he blamed him. If it had been Kíli that had been struck, if he had watched his baby brother choke on his own blood –

No. If that had happened, Fíli would be far worse than his brave little Kíli was. Despite his silent order, his imagination showed him the image anyway. Kíli, in Bilbo's arms, bleeding and choking and dying. Then, when he tried to banish the scene he saw its reflection. He saw himself, as if from Kíli's eyes, in the same position.

A shudder ran down Fíli's spine, and he had the odd sensation that his panic was being muted along with his pain. He had felt something like it before, in Rivendell; the dulling of fear and grief. This felt a little different. Every time fear or dismay crept towards his mind they were brushed off, like a cobweb on one of Bilbo's prize ornaments. He simply could not panic.

Not that he was complaining.

"Fíli?"

"Oh, sorry," Fíli gave his brother a sheepish look. "You weren't talking, were you? Got caught up in my own thoughts."

"I wasn't talking," Kíli paused. "What were you thinking about?"

Fíli chose his words carefully. "How lucky we are to be in Rivendell."

"Nothing worse?"

"Not at all," Fíli frowned at the crease between his brother's eyebrows. "Why don't you believe me?"

It was Kíli's turn to look sheepish, though he was serious when he spoke. "Morgul blades and Nazgûl… Lord Elrond said that they can cause nightmares, and terrors at all times of day – he gave you a draught but said to keep an eye…"

Ah, that made sense. "Well, you can step down from watch duty, it seems to be working perfectly. I was actually musing over why I was unable to properly panic about anything. You should try some, brother, it's lovely."

Kíli grinned, and shook his head. "I might, now. I did not want to earlier, in case, in case I missed-"

"There's nothing to miss," Fíli promised, flicking Kíli's nose. "I am fine."

There was a muffled knock on the door, and a furious whisper. _"Kíli Baggins!"_

A look of guilt passed over Kíli's face, and he called out, "come in!"

Frodo and Pippin peeked around the door, cross faces melting into smiles when they saw Fíli's eyes open.

"Fíli!" Pippin cried, falling over his feet to get to the bed. Frodo was no less hasty, and all but collapsed against the side of Fíli's bed with a cry.

"You're awake!"

"Hello, boys," Fíli chuckled, slowly ruffling Frodo's hair and then poking Pippin's nose.

"How are you feeling?" asked Frodo, with an anxious glance to Kíli.

"Well," said Fíli firmly, taking Frodo's hand. "Look at _me_ , Frodo. I am fine."

The young hobbit sagged with relief, his lips pulling into a smile that did not survive his sentence. "We were so worried – when we heard what happened…"

"Aye, it was horrible," Fíli nodded, keeping his voice matter-of-fact, "and I've heard I was very lucky."

Kíli made a quiet scoffing noise in the back of his throat. "That's an understatement."

"Perhaps," said Fíli, "but nevertheless, I feel alright now. Very little pain, and I am very comfortable. So – why were you whispering so angrily at this lump through the door?" He reached out and slapped Kíli's hand, though he let his fingers linger on his brother's skin for a long moment. Anything to chase the sorrow from Kíli's eyes.

Frodo put his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows at Kíli. "Because he was supposed to come for tea an hour ago, and he hasn't eaten all day."

"That's not true," protested Kíli softly. "When Lord Elrond came to check in he had someone bring me something."

"A few biscuits and some cheese does not a dinner make," Pippin said wisely. The youngest of their hobbits had already made himself comfortable sitting on the bed beside Fíli. "Besides, the longer we waited for _you,_ the longer Bilbo made _us_ wait."

"Wait for what?" Fíli said, frowning at Kíli to show his disapproval even as he looked back to Pippin.

"The elves won't let us all in to see you at once," Pippin's scowl told Fíli exactly how the hobbit felt about that. "So, Bilbo drew up a rota, and it's our turn now but he was hoping Kíli'd have the brains to come down unprompted. A stupid hope. Even I knew that was wishful thinking."

Fíli stared at his younger brother, eyebrows raised, but Kíli met his glance with equal strength.

"I made a promise, Fíli. I do not intend to break it."

It took him less than a second to know what Kíli was referring to, and his guilt returned. Kíli must have thought history was repeating itself – Fíli injured, on death's door, saved in an elven hall.

 _Finishing his story, the awful horror that was now his_ , _Fíli looked to his brother, though he did not know what Kíli could do._

 _"It's over," Kíli whispered, looking as if he was about to throw up. "It's over now, you're safe…"_

 _The young dwarf was fidgeting, his chest rising and falling faster even than Fíli's, and then he stood up, and turned toward the door. Fíli's lungs collapsed in on his heart._

 _Leaving? Kíli, leaving? Why, why would he do that?_

 _"Kíli, no!" Fíli sobbed, reaching out for Kíli, who flinched away. "Please, please don't leave me! Please, Kíli I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't leave me, please, please, please-"_

 _"Stop!" Kíli cried, shaking from head to toe. He was crying, and he took another stumbling step towards the door._

 _He had said too much – Fíli had given Kíli too many details, too much to fear. He had put his brother through the very grief he had felt when they lost Kíli, all those years ago. The grief he had never,_ ever _wanted his little Kíli to feel._

 _"I'm sorry," Fíli begged, stretching out his hand. "Please,_ please _Kíli, don't leave me!"_

 _"No," Kíli swallowed, shaking his head. "No, Fíli. No. You do have nothing to be sorry for."_

 _"Please," the whisper was so broken Fíli wondered if it had reached his brother's ears. "Please, Kee…"_

 _"I'm not going anywhere," Kíli replied shakily. "I won't leave you, Fíli. I won't leave, I promise."_

 _Fíli whimpered in relief. "You promise?"_

 _"I swear," Kíli stumbled back, falling onto the bed wrapping his arms around Fíli. Within a heartbeat, Fíli felt safe, safe and loved and protected. And he could breathe. "Fee, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Fíli, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"_

 _"What for?" Fíli's mumble was muffled by Kíli's chest._

 _"I left," Kíli sobbed, tightening his grip on his brother. "I couldn't, I couldn't stand it, you looked so, you looked like you were_ dead _and I was so sure I'd lost you and I just, I couldn't take it so I left, I left you, I'm sorry! Fee, I'm so, so, sorry!"_

 _Fíli stiffened for a moment. He had done that. He had put Kíli through the grief of losing a brother. He strengthened his embrace with all the strength that he had._

 _"I love you, Kíli."_

 _Kíli sobbed. "I love you too, Fíli. I love you so much, I'm so sorry!"_

 _"Don't be," Fíli said. "I understand."_

 _With a soft keen, Kíli shifted and Fíli's heart jolted. His fingers tightened, and Kíli made a soft, shushing noise._

 _"I'm not leaving," he promised. "I swear to you, Fíli, I won't! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I won't leave you again. Not ever."_

 _There was only one word that Fíli had the strength to say. "Good."_

Fíli took a long, deep breath. He was not there now. That torture had passed long ago, and he was not afraid now. But he had put Kíli through that again. He had forced Kíli to relive those dark days while he waited to see if Fíli would even survive.

"That promise," said Fíli softly, "was made a long time ago. And I believe I made the same promise once myself."

"More than once," replied Kíli.

"But I am awake now," Fíli said, taking Kíli's hand and squeezing it. "And I give my permission – and my order – for you to go and get some hot supper into your belly."

Kíli nodded slowly. "Very well. I'll be back later." Standing up, Kíli headed to the door, only to pause and point at Frodo and Pippin. "Don't you worry him, or weary him, or wear him out."

"We won't," Frodo promised, an unusual solemn look in his eyes. Pippin nodded in agreement, and Kíli ducked out of the room.

"What promise are you talking about?"

"Pippin!" Frodo admonished. "That's private."

Fíli smiled. A pleasant sleepiness was beginning to creep up on him. "Ah, don't fight lads. Close your mouth, Pip, you'll catch a fly. Again. Long ago, now, Kíli and I promised each other never to abandon each other."

"He'd hardly be abandoning you," scoffed Pippin. "It's supper!"

"I know that, but Kíli thinks in funny ways sometimes."

For a long while, there was silence, and it was very comfortable. Fíli loved each and every one of his hobbits and dwarven relations fiercely and deeply, but of all the young ones he was closest with Frodo and Pippin.

He had come to see Frodo as a little brother, and he was often the youngest Baggins' first confidant. As for Pippin, well… Fíli had been Pippin's favourite since day one. Sometimes, when Pippin was tired, Fíli would catch him referring to 'my Fíli.' It was a name and a title all in one, and Fíli was proud to bear it. It reminded him of Kíli saying 'my Bilbo.'

Unsurprisingly, it was Pippin that broke the silence. However, the words were not what Fíli had expected. "Fíli, are… are you really alright? Or are you just saying that to make us feel better?"

Fili looked up at Pippin, and then reached up and poked the hobbit's nose. "Ah, Pippin. I'm fine. I told no lies, I feel very little pain. Except in my neck when I look up at you like this."

Pippin did not smile. He simply hung his head, and kept his eyes on the bandage poking out from the top of Fíli's nightshirt.

Sighing, Fíli turned his head to look at Frodo. The young hobbit's eyes were also fixed on the wound, and he looked even grimmer than Pippin. "What's on your mind, then?"

"I," Frodo swallowed, "I cannot help but think it should've been me."

Fíli's heart went cold. "I beg your pardon?"

"I should've been there, I should've helped, it should've been-"

"Frodo Baggins," Fíli lowered his voice, "don't you ever, _ever_ say that again. Do you hear me? This was my choice, and my burden to bear. I am glad you were not there. It is not something that I would want you to _see,_ let alone feel."

"I should have had a choice, too," Frodo croaked, looking more and more like a frightened child. "I, I am an adult, I could have…"

"No," Fíli shook his head, beckoning Frodo to come closer to the bed. He seized the young hobbit's hand. "You listen to me, you take that guilt and you let it go. It is not yours to carry, nadadith. Let it go."

Dropping his head with watering eyes, Frodo nodded.

"Now," Fíli said firmly, "I meant what I said – I am going to get a crick in my neck looking up like this. Do an injured dwarf a favour and lie down."

Finally, his boys cracked small smiles, and laid down on either side of his bed. Fíli put his arms around them and let them snuggle up the way that they would when they were children.

Or drunk. Or on the road.

Or sleepy.

Thorin had often complained about the impression that it left upon visiting nobles to see snoozing piles of princes, lords and ladies, but there was no place as safe or as comfortable as the arms of your loved ones. At least, that is what Fíli thought.

"Fíli?" Pippin murmured.

"Mm?"

"I'm glad you're here."

"Me too," Fíli closed his eyes. "And I am glad that you are here. Kíli said you'd had trouble with orcs?"

"Just a little," Frodo said. "Enough to scare us, not enough to hurt us."

"Good," Fíli paused, and then yawned.

Frodo sat up anxiously. "Do you need more sleep?"

"You only just woke up!" Pippin cried.

"I am a little tired," Fíli nodded, smiling at Frodo. "Healing and potions can do that to you."

"Do," Frodo looked as though his words tasted sour, "do you want us to leave you?"

Before Fíli could reply, Pippin snorted. "Well, I'm not going anywhere, whether you want me to or not. And that is that."

"I think your question has been answered," drawled Fíli, and then his smile softened. "But I would not wish you to leave, in any case. You may stay as long as you are willing. Besides, I do not think I could sleep just yet. Some stories, or some songs might do me good."

Immediately, the two boys began to bicker about who had a better tale to tell, and Fíli felt relieved. Just as he had hoped, the stories that Frodo and Pippin began to tell took their minds back to happier times and lighter days, and Fíli felt his own heart lighten all the more for hearing them. Finally, though he could barely keep his eyes open.

"Good," he yawned, "good story, Pippin. Your turn Frodo."

The young hobbit snorted softly. "You look like you need a lullaby, not a story."

"Go on then," Fíli grinned, closing his eyes. "Durin knows I have sung you enough in my time."

Frodo rolled his eyes, but he was a Baggins through and through, and just as it was with Kíli and Bilbo, it was not difficult to coax the lad into singing.

 _"The old man had a daughter fair_

 _Scarce in her tweens when summons came_

 _Bidding her father take up arms_

 _And follow the army away._

 _She watched him take with shaking arms_

 _His worn cloak and rusting sword_

 _And she begged him not to go,_

 _To die at the whim of a lord."_

By the end of the first verse, Fíli was snoozing, and Pippin's eyes closed halfway through the song. Though Frodo sang to the end, he was soon coaxed into sleep, the feeling of Fíli's chest rising and falling against his cheek the only lullaby that he needed. Neither Frodo nor Pippin had slept more than a few hours since the orc attack, and not at all since they discovered what had happened on Weathertop.

Pippin wanted to sleep, badly, but he had a job to do. A job that his heart would not let him rest from. He propped open his weary eyes, and he set up his watch.

His watch on Fíli's breathing.

* * *

It had been over a century since Gandalf had visited Ael o Alassë. Of course, it had been a long time since he had been granted the luxury of time to himself, but even before the days grew so hasty and dark he had not returned to the so called 'Pool of Happiness.' He used to visit often, many centuries ago when the days were lighter and Celebrían, wife of Elrond had still dwelt upon the earth.

Hidden in a dell just outside of the heart of Rivendell, Ael o Alassë was a perfectly circular pool of starlit water, surrounded by a ring of pale bark trees with leaves of shining silver. They were akin to the famed mallorn trees of Lothlórien, and had been planted by Lord Elrond around the pool as a gift to his new wife when she first came to Imladris

Whether in the dead of a starless night, or the heat of a cloudless day, the water of the pool sparkled, and the lilies that floated on the surface could be found in no other place on the earth. On the day that he and Celebrían were wed, Lord Elrond had set the first two flowers adrift. They were the silver blue shade of moonlight, and simple in their beauty. Two more of a deeper shade had bloomed when Elladan and Elrohir were born, and the final, midnight blue flower had opened at the birth of Arwen.

One of the silver blue flowers had closed. It still rested on the pool, and did not wither or rot, but its petals had not opened for over four hundred years. They had been closed since Celebrían, in her anguish, crossed the sea to Valinor.

It was then that Gandalf's visits to Ael o Alassë became more frequent. It was still a place of peace and love, but it was tinted with sorrow, and rarely visited by Elrond's household.

For the first time, Gandalf felt that he truly understood the Lady's decision to leave. When you had been tormented for so long, when you spent all your light just to stay alive, it was easy for a soul to seek solace the world could no longer provide.

Sighing, the wizard lowered his weary body onto the smooth stone at the pool's edge, and eased off his elven slippers. He dipped his lower legs into the cool water, and a little of his tension eased. The water felt wonderful, but gazing at his feet brought no comfort. They were blackened and blistered, and only a few slithers of stark white skin seemed unharmed. He would have thought they were simply filthy, had he not known better.

The day after they arrived in Rivendell, Gandalf had been taken to the baths so that his wounds could be identified and healed. Not that he had needed much convincing – though Gandalf had never been as concerned with cleanliness as elves or hobbits he had been craving a bath for longer than he could remember.

It had taken no less than two hours to scrub away the years upon years of filth that had matted against his skin. Long dried blood had tugged against poorly healed wounds he had forgotten, and he had been forced to change into fresh water when his first bath turned black.

Clearing away the grime had, at first, made Gandalf feel worse. He was forced to agree with the hobbits, for he could clearly see that he was emaciated. There were more wounds than he had expected, from unhealed lacerations from the lashes of Mordor to smaller, infected wounds that had not had time to heal.

However, with Elrond's help the wounds were now on their way to repair, and he had time to worry about his deeper fear.

Gandalf felt empty.

Never before had he pushed himself to such limits, spent so much power in such a short time, or in such a weakened state, and hopelessness seemed to cling to him like a heavy mist. Empty was the only word that he could conjure to describe how he felt.

The closed petals of a silver-blue lily brushed past his shins, and he took a sharp breath in. The flower floated back towards the centre of the pool and the other lilies.

"May I join you?"

Gandalf jumped, looking up at the elf entering the dell. "Glorfindel," he sighed, unable (and unwilling) to stop a wry smile creeping onto his face. "It's you."

"Indeed," his old friend bowed his head. "I am sorry for startling you, mellon. Ael o Alassë is a place for peace, and should you prefer solitude I shall not be offended."

"By all means, join me," Gandalf said. "I do not mind."

Glorfindel stepped to a nearby stone and sat down, smiling sadly at the wizard. "So, how do you feel?"

Gandalf sighed. "Drained, I suppose, would be the word to use. Or empty."

Speaking of such things with Glorfindel was easier than it was with his mortal friends. They thought him so strong, so infallible, and evidence of the contrary had been known to shake them. But Gandalf had known Glorfindel in Valinor, long before either of them were sent to Middle Earth, and he bore no shame or guilt in confiding in him.

"I am not surprised," Glorfindel's eyebrows furrowed. "Your power is not limitless, my friend."

"I know," Gandalf grumbled, though again a smile was called to his face. "That is what I told the Bagginses upon Weathertop."

"It was bravely done, saving the prince. But it was not particularly wise…"

"I know," Gandalf repeated. "But I could not let him die, Glorfindel. Not like that. It was not his time to go."

"Were you not there, it would have been," the elf said gently.

"But I was there!" the wizard's voice grew cross, and he closed his eyes. He sighed, and softened his tone. "I have failed his family too often, my friend. I gave his grandfather up for dead, and was unable to save him when at last I found his prison. I was not there when the dragon came, and I could offer no aid at the Battle of Moria."

"It is not your duty to protect every dwarf in the world," reminded Glorfindel.

"No, but they are my friends." Keeping his eyes closed, Gandalf allowed the darkness to spill from past to present. With any luck, it would drain out of him entirely, and be swallowed by the light of the pool. "When I was in Mordor, they often brought prisoners before me. Dwarves, men, women, elves, even children. I was made to watch their torment, their suffering. Their deaths. It pleased the 'lords' of Mordor to dangle an innocent life before me, one that I could call from the brink of death if I had only my hands. I never had my hands."

Bitterness punctuated his every word, and Glorfindel was silent. A faint breeze blew Gandalf's hair across his face, and he could smell the distant scent of baking. It seemed that the hobbits were in the kitchens again. The thought strengthened his heart a little, and he took the elf's silence as leave to continue.

"I could not save them. Not a single soul. When I escaped, I made my way to the prison, but it was a tomb. Only one had survived, an elfling too tortured to tell me her own name. She perished before we could even leave the cursed tower, and all the comfort I could give her was my hand," he took a deep, steadying breath, and felt tears willing his eyes to open so that they could spill free. "When I saw Fíli on Weathertop, I saw all of them. The ones I could not save. And a dear friend of mine, one of the most kind-hearted and cheerful dwarves I have ever met, was to join them. I could not let that happen, I had to do something."

Eventually, Glorfindel spoke. "I am glad that you did. I said that it was unwise, not that it was wrongfully done. And I am sorry to hear of such suffering, Olórin. For your sake, and for the sake of those less fortunate." Gandalf opened his eyes, and the tears wasted no time in escaping. Glorfindel's own eyes were misted with tears, and he spoke in an even softer tone. "We will mourn with you, if that is what you need. It is no doubt what the poor souls deserve."

Gandalf nodded, and again they fell to silence. Finally, he spoke the question that worried him most. "How long do you suppose I shall be like this? Weakened, powerless..."

"You are not powerless, Olórin, though I know what you mean to say. It will depend, but if you rest and allow your body to recover, your spirit will follow. For you took on five Nazgûl in a weakened state, and then performed a healing ritual that had you transfer your life force to Fíli, when you had so little of it left yourself. You could have died, Olórin. You were lucky to make it to Rivendell – if Elrond had not enchanted the Bruinen already I doubt you'd have escaped the final four wraiths. You were almost as weak as Fíli when you arrived, do not forget that. Allow yourself the time to heal," the elf said firmly. "However, given that you are in Imladris, I think that your recovery will be swift. By the month's end, I do not doubt, you will be just as capable of disturbing the peace as usual."

"The month's end," cursed Gandalf. "There is so much to be done!"

"Indeed, but much of it can be done without running around like a battle-crazed dwarf, and we have a reprieve here. For now, Rivendell will hold." Glorfindel's fingers dipped into the water, and traced circles onto its surface. "Heal, rest, and your power will return in full." When Gandalf did not reply, Glorfindel placed a hand on his shoulder. "My dear friend, you have not had a moment of safety or peace in almost a decade. Your hardship is over now, Olórin. You may rest, before the next task begins. Allow us to worry on your behalf in the meantime."

"I will do my best," the wizard promised, "but I fear I do not know how to rest, anymore."

"Then it is a good thing we are currently hosting a party of hobbits," said the elf, "for they know better than any how to enjoy life's simple pleasures."

Gandalf smiled.

 **I hope you enjoyed that somewhat angsty chapter, I shall try and update as soon as I can :D**

 **It's very hard to write our poor Gandalf in such a state, so I hope I have done him justice, what do you think?**

 **Please do leave a review if you can, it makes my day and helps me so much to know that people are reading, and enjoying (or not!) the story.**

 **Have a good day :D**

 **Note : Heal Over, by KT Tunstall**

 ** _It isn't very difficult to see why  
You are the way you are  
Doesn't take a genius to realize  
That sometimes life is hard  
It's gonna take time  
But you'll just have to wait  
You're gonna be fine  
But in the meantime_**

 ** _Come over here lady  
Let me wipe your tears away  
Come a little nearer baby  
'Cause you'll heal over  
Heal over  
Heal over someday_**

 ** _And I don't wanna hear you tell yourself  
That these feelings are in the past  
You know it doesn't mean they're off the shelf  
Because pain is built to last  
Everybody sails alone  
But we can travel side by side  
Even if you fail  
You know that no one really minds_**

 ** _Come over here lady  
Let me wipe your tears away  
Come a little nearer baby  
Cause you'll heal over  
Heal over  
Heal over someday_**

 ** _Don't hold on but don't let go  
I know it's so hard  
You've got to try to trust yourself  
I know it's so hard, so hard_**

 ** _Come over here lady  
Let me wipe your tears away  
Come a little nearer baby  
Cause you'll heal over  
Heal over  
Heal over someday_**

 ** _Yeah you're gonna heal over_**


	12. Chapter 12: A Horizon of Clouds

**Hello everyone! Thank you so much for the lovely response to the last chapter. I'm sorry that this one is a little later than I wanted it to be. I was ill for the entirety of last week, and writing time had to be spent on deadlines, which are now looming! Anyway, I used what free time I have to relax and write this, so I hope it's okay for you :D**

 **As ever, please forgive any typos or mistakes, I've been writing and editing for uni and for this so much that letters are losing their meaning, hahahaha**

 **Read, enjoy, review!**

 **Chapter Twelve # A Horizon of Clouds #**

 _Bilbo stood at the door of Bag End, beaming as Kíli ran towards him. The little dwarfling had spent the last week ploughing down near Buckland with Esmeralda, Paladin and Saradoc, after they had been caught pilfering potatoes from young Farmer Maggot. Bilbo himself had been forced to return to Hobbiton, as he had promised to have tea with his Aunt Belba – he had only recently turned thirty years old, and new his father's sister did not think him too old for a good thwack if he did something so rude as cancel plans for tea._

 _It had been a week without his little dwarven shadow, and despite the thought that he should be relishing his freedom and drinking 'til dawn, Bilbo had missed Kíli dreadfully. But now, Kíli was back._

 _Holding out his arms, Bilbo bent his knees ready to swing the dwarfling into the air as Kíli fumbled through the towards him._

 _Then two grey, skinny arms darted out and seized the dwarfling's neck from behind._

 _Bilbo cried out as Kíli screamed, but even as the hobbit began to run, a cackling Gollum dragged his little one away with heart-stopping speed._

 _"Bagginses steals our precious," the creature crooned, backing away much faster than Bilbo could run. "So we will take the Bagginses precious, we will!"_

 _"Bilbo!" Kíli's eyes were white with fear, and his hands reached out desperately. "Help me, Bilbo, Bilbo please, help!"_

 _"Kíli!" he cried, trying with all his might to run faster. "Kíli, no! Wait!"_

 _"Wait!" screeched Gollum, his horrid face leering over Kíli's shoulder. "Wait, precious, wait! It says what we says, it does, because it knows now. We shall take your precious away, forever!"_

 _The creature skidded to a halt, by the edge of a sudden cliff, his arm around Kíli's neck._

 _"Please," Bilbo took a tentative step forward, pulling a golden ring out of his pocket. "Take it, take it, just don't hurt him. Please."_

 _"Too late," said Gollum, but it was not Gollum's voice – it was colder, harsher, and more full of malice._

 _Bilbo's scream could not save his Kíli from being kicked over the cliff, and he hurtled forwards, collapsing on the edge of the rock._

Flying upright in bed, Bilbo drew in a strangled gasp. Dream. It was no more than a dream. They were in Rivendell, they were safe, Kíli was fine. Fíli was fine, too, and remarkably so, as was Frodo. Bilbo's family were alive, and safe, they were fine.

He took a deep breath and tried to stop himself from trembling. Really, he was being silly.

"Bilbo?" a sleepy voice murmured, and he cursed silently.

"I'm sorry," he replied, lying back down and wrapping an arm around his wife. "I didn't mean to wake you. Nothing's wrong."

"Well that's a lie if ever I've heard one," she yawned, and shifted around to face him. Her eyebrows were furrowed over her perfect blue eyes, and Bilbo could not help but marvel at how beautiful she was, even when worried at some godforsaken hour of the morning. "You're cold all over, amrâlimê."

"Ah, just another bad dream," he tried to smile. "I'll be fine."

She sighed, tracing her hand down his cheek. "Which one was it this time?"

"Kíli."

"A full circle," Dís said sadly. "It always starts and ends with our Kíli, doesn't it?"

"Yes." It was Bilbo's turn to sigh. "Though a circle is the right description – it's like the boys are taking turns. First Kíli, then Fíli, then Frodo. I had a nightmare about _Bróin_ the other night, for crying out loud! But it always comes back to Kíli."

"For me too," his wife said. "Though for a different reason, I expect."

Bilbo considered this for a moment. "Losing Kíli, for you, was your first experience of losing a child, your biggest nightmare, at the time. And Kíli was my _first_ child _,_ my nightmares have revolved around him for decades. I wouldn't say it's that different."

"Well, there's that and the fact that he's magnet for trouble," Dís' tone coaxed a smile onto Bilbo's face. "Fíli and Frodo are sensible lads, for the most part. They don't need worrying about as much, but Kíli would find a way to walk into mayhem were he bound at hand and foot."

"I suppose," Bilbo let out a sigh that was almost a laugh. The image of Kíli running happily towards him came to the forefront of his mind, and he closed his eyes. "They take my greatest memories from me."

"I'm sorry?" Dís sounded confused, and he felt her tuck a curl away from his face.

"So often, now, my dreams will start as memories, and more often than not they are good memories. Sometimes great ones. But they get waylaid, ambushed, by my greatest fears and then I cannot think of the best moments of my life without seeing that wretched Gollum drag Kíli away, or –" Bilbo stopped himself, squeezing his eyes tighter closed.

Dís did not push for the alternatives. Instead, she asked, "What was the memory tonight?"

"Kíli's return from Buckland," Bilbo said miserably.

"I think I remember – the longest you were ever parted, was it not?" When he nodded, she continued. "Was that among your greatest memories?"

Bilbo nodded. There were tears beneath his eyelids and it was becoming uncomfortable, so he opened his eyes. Before he could move to wipe them away, Dís had done it for him. "It was. For when he got back, he gave me the biggest hug I had ever received. Held on with his feet and arms all at once, and proclaimed how much he'd missed me. I asked if he'd had fun and he said… he said…"

"Said what?"

Bilbo took a deep breath. "He said that he had, but that it was hard without his family there. I tried to comfort him – it had been little over a year, he still got rather upset sometimes, but he laughed. He laughed, and said... 'No, Bilbo, I meant you!' He had never called me family before. For me, it was the moment of no return, I suppose. In my heart, I knew then that I'd be bound to that silly little dwarfling until the day I died."

"That," Dís whispered, "is a special memory. Whatever happens, whatever our future holds, it does not change the past. It does not change the fact that we have been so blessed."

Bilbo smiled, and rested his forehead against hers. "We are blessed. And cursed, apparently, though for that I blame your side of the family. We Bagginses are notably respectable."

"Oh, that's a little below the belt," she scolded with a smile of her own, knowing only too well that he meant no harm. "Besides, it's easy to be respectable when you live a life of milk and honey."

"How could you possibly say that when you've met the Sackville-Bagginses?" he teased, shifting to hold her a little closer.

"We cannot choose our relations," she said, kissing him softly.

"But we choose our family," he whispered, thinking of his Kíli and his Fíli and his ridiculous family of dwarves.

"No," Dís replied. "No, we do not choose our family. We make it."

Outside, a bird began to sing. Dawn was not far off then. Bilbo shook his head slowly. "That cannot be."

"Oh? And why not?"

"Because I would never be capable of making anything this wonderful."

"Poppycock. You half-created Kíli, even if not by blood."

"True. He was a savage when I got him."

Dís let out a sound that was half laugh, half cry of outrage and rolled over to lie on top of him, pinning him down to the bed. Her hair fell about his face, and his nightmare was completely forgotten. "Savage, was he? I'll show you savage-"

There was a knock at the door, and both Bilbo and Dís jumped. Dís' arm slipped on the silken sheets, and she collapsed on top of Bilbo.

"Omph!" He flailed for a moment, grinning at the sight of his wife. She had sat bolt upright, her cheeks bright red, and her hands clasped over her mouth. Even her ears were turning pink.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, though it sounded like she was on the verge of giggles.

Equal parts annoyed and amused, Bilbo massaged his chest and called out, "who is it?"

"Thorin," a voice grumbled through the door.

Dís groaned and flopped back against the pillows. Bilbo laughed and sat up, though he was a little disgruntled himself. He had not been able to spend much quality alone time with Dís in Bag End, what with Frodo sleeping on their floor most nights and a house full of visitors, and of course they recently had been far too worried about Fíli to think about anything of the sort.

"Come in or go away!" cried Dís, pushing herself into a seated position again and rubbing at her eyes.

Unsurprisingly, the door opened, and Thorin strode into the room, stiffening slightly at the sight of the pair in bed. "Did I wake you?"

"Yes," Dís replied, as Bilbo shook his head.

"No, we were already awake."

"I see," Thorin drawled.

"What can we do for you this morning?" Bilbo asked, since Dís was clearly not in the mood for manners.

"Before the sun has risen," she muttered, glaring at her brother and crossing her arms.

Thorin raised an eyebrow. "Dawn is but a short while off, and it is past seven o'clock."

Bilbo was a little surprised – he had not expected it to be what one would properly consider the morning. "Already?"

"Aye. I thought you would like to know that there's to be a feast tonight, now that Fíli is back on his feet. And tomorrow, I believe, there is to be a council. To – discuss matters."

Bilbo's stomach clenched even as his heart lightened. Fíli was doing marvellously – since truly waking three days ago, he had been making more progress than Bilbo would have dared to believe. But the ring…

The ring.

He hated it for what it was doing to his family, he _loathed_ the pain it had put them through, but the thought of discussing its fate was oddly uncomfortable. He shuddered slightly, and tried to shake it off. That was what the ring wanted – for him to protect it.

He would die before he protected something that had led to the stabbing of his son.

"Very nice." Dís pulled him from his thoughts. "And why couldn't we be told this later, when we had decided to join the rest of you and you knew we were awake?"

Thorin's jaw hardened, and he stared straight into his sister's eyes. "I thought you'd want to know."

Dís gasped, a wicked grin coming to her face. "Ooh, you're avoiding someone."

Thorin snorted and rolled his eyes. "Do not be ridiculous, Dís."

"You're hiding," she insisted. "Who are you hiding from, Thorin?"

"I am not a child," he hissed, though he was going quite red. Bilbo could not help but smirk a little.

Dís clicked her tongue. "Come now, I'll find out. You know I'll find out, tell me who it is…"

"Oh, shut up, Dís."

"Ah!" Dís laughed, staring at Bilbo with her eyebrows raised. "Do you hear that? You come into our room before the sun has shown her face and then tell me to shut up? Whatever would Amad say?"

"She would say 'Dís, stop teasing your brother,'" replied Thorin sharply.

"Ooh, poppycock."

"You may as well just tell her," Bilbo piped up. "Because she will find out."

Thorin turned his glare on the hobbit, but it had little effect anymore. The king could still cow his nephews with a stare, but Bilbo had seen his brother-in-law in a fluffy pink dressing gown after a particularly interesting night of drinking, and watched him rock sick little hobbits to sleep.

Bilbo Baggins respected Thorin with all his heart, but he could never again be afraid of him.

The great king of Erebor ground his teeth together. "I am not hiding. I simply met Lord Elrond on my way back from the baths and thought it too early to share petty niceties with an elf. Hence I told him I had arranged to speak with you."

"So you hid," summarised Bilbo.

Thorin looked as though he wanted to excommunicate the both of them. His face was as red as Bilbo's best jacket, and there were storm clouds in his eyes.

"Oh, nadad," laughed Dís. "Here, should you wish to do something useful and keep yourself away from the elves, why don't you go and visit Dwalin? The little ones should be up soon, you could take them off his hands."

"Within five minutes," muttered Thorin, "a king has been scorned, mocked and reduced to the role of babysitter."

"We are your family," Dís said with a smirk, massaging her stomach. "It is our job to keep our king's feet attached to the ground. Especially when you come into our rooms _before the sun is up._ Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to visit the bathroom." With that, she swung her legs out over the bed, threw off the covers, and strode into the little en suite. Bilbo watched her long hair sway over her hips as she walked and smiled softly, before turning back to Thorin. The king looked as if he was still fuming.

"Really, you can't be surprised," he said quietly. "You said it yourself, she's never been a morning person."

"No," grunted Thorin, smirking a little despite himself. "That she has not."

"I can't believe after all these years and all that he's done for us, you'd still rather hide than talk to Lord Elrond. Oh, wait, sorry. I meant majestically hide."

"I have no hatred for him." Thorin sniffed, fixing his glare on Bilbo. "I merely wished to avoid petty small talk. And if you do not let this go, Master Baggins, I will release a law stating that no one in Erebor may supply you with any kind of sugar or honey. We will see how smart you are when deprived of all your sweets."

Bilbo winced, grinning. "Oh, much better. That's much more frightening than when you'd threaten to chop my head off."

Thorin gave a grin of his own, one just as wicked as his sister's. "Especially as I am most serious. As soon as we are in the mountain I can cut off your sweet supply like that," he snapped his fingers, "and you know it."

Bilbo's face fell. "If I ever make it back to Erebor, that is."

Thorin frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing," Bilbo said, sighing. "Only I cannot seem to see a future where we make it back in one piece."

"You will return to Erebor," promised Thorin, a sombre look on his face and fervour in his eyes. "No one shall take your head but me."

Bilbo laughed and nodded. "That's good to know."

Smiling, Thorin sighed and shook his head. He glanced at the bathroom door, then back at Bilbo. "I think I shall take my sister's advice. It is rarely ill, sharp as her tongue may be. Good morning, Bilbo."

"Good morning," Bilbo nodded, and Thorin bowed his head, before striding out the door with an impressive amount of pride.

Yawning, Bilbo stretched his arms up into the air, and felt the cool, metal ring bounce against his chest. He scowled, hating the reminder of their strife and hating the way that it lifted his heart when he touched it.

There was a faint flushing sound, then the bathroom door opened, and Dís emerged, a slight frown on her face.

"Are you alright?"

"What?" she blinked, and then focused on Bilbo. "Me? Oh, I'm fine, fine. Just lost in thought. Has the toe-rag gone then?"

Bilbo rolled his eyes. "Yes."

"Good," Dís huffed. "Though he's ruined the mood entirely. Taking your head, indeed."

"You heard that?" Bilbo raised an eyebrow.

She nodded, climbing back onto the bed and clicking her tongue. She ran her hand down Bilbo's face and then kissed him softly. "He means well, bless him, but I happen to like your head, and I prefer it attached to your head."

"Oh, picky, picky."

* * *

Pursing his lips at his reflection, Merry straightened out the only decent jacket he had brought with him. Most of his good clothes were at his Grandpa Adalgrim's house – there had been no point in packing them when they were woken in the middle of the night.

This jacket was a deep green colour, and it had brass buttons that shone like gold. It suited his favourite yellow waistcoat well, and it was wonderful comfortable. But today Merry felt like it made him look very small, and very unimportant. He was not sure why, but it did, and it was a most uncomfortable feeling.

"Pippin?" he said slowly. He could see Pippin on the mirror, perched on his bed, nattering away about some drinking game that he was going to play with ( _or lose to)_ Gimli. When Merry spoke, he looked up, apparently surprised at being interrupted.

"Yes?"

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"Doesn't what bother me?" Pippin looked even more puzzled. Not that that was unusual – he never paid any attention to anything.

"The fact that nobody is going to tell us what's going on."

Pippin's confused expression hardened into a frown. "What do you mean, Merry? We know what's going on – Bilbo's ring –"

"Yes, yes," Merry said darkly, turning around to face his cousin. "But there's going to be a council tomorrow, did you know that?"

"No," Pippin said, looking mildly affronted. "I wasn't invited."

"They're going to talk about what to do next, and they're going to keep us out of it. I heard Bilbo and Elrond talking about it yesterday. 'Best the young'uns keep occupied,' Bilbo said. 'They'll want to help, or learn more than they should about things that'd get them into trouble.' And Elrond said he'd organise for one of the twins to take us out to some pool or lake or something – I kept listening, but they didn't say anything else of much importance. They mean to keep us out of it, Pip."

Now Pippin looked offended. "What do they think we're going to do? Swallow the thing and see if that gets rid of it?"

Merry laughed. "I don't think they'd put that past you, Pippin." His cousin threw a pillow at him, and he dodged. "But I don't know what they think we'll do. Probably think we're not old enough to understand, which is just ridiculous."

"Aye," Pippin said, his face darkening so suddenly that Merry was a little taken aback. "But we're not fools, Merry."

"Well, _I'm_ not" Merry said slowly, earning him another pillow. He let that one hit him in the face – he probably deserved it. "I'm only joking."

"So what _are_ we going to do?" Pippin asked, folding his arms across his chest.

"I don't know." Merry frowned. "I don't like the idea of being carted around Middle-Earth like children just because they don't think we're old enough to make up our own minds. Because that's what'll happen. They'll decide whether we're going home or back to the Shire, or staying here. And I don't want that. We deserve to make up our own minds."

"I'd drink to that," nodded Pippin. "But what exactly are our own minds saying?"

Merry rolled his eyes. Though Pippin's words did not quite make sense, he understood the meaning behind them. "I don't know."

His treacherous cousin raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. "My, you're knowing so little today you're almost _me_ , Merry."

Once again, Merry rolled his eyes. A part of him was sure that they must be the strongest muscles in his body, with all the exercise they got. "Oh, shut up Pippin. You're not stupid, you just hold things in your brain the way watering can holds water. It's there and useless for a long time, and then when you go to use it, it all just drains away."

"That's not very nice." Pippin's frown was erring dangerously towards a pout, though Merry would probably earn a good wallop for saying that out loud.

Instead, the older hobbit snorted. "I'm _joking,_ Pippin. You should have a quick look for your sense of humour while I finish getting ready. Perhaps it's under the bed."

"Merry," said Pippin.

"Yes…?"

"What _are_ we going to do?" Pippin asked, an unsettling, solemn look on his face.

"All that we can," said Merry, a slight grin twitching onto his face. "We're going to listen in on that meeting."

"Right," Pippin looked surprised for a moment, but then he nodded. "Right. I'll bring the snacks."

"Snacks?!"

"Well, Uncle Bilbo'll be there, and Thorin and Gandalf and they'll talk for _hours,_ Merry. The elves will hear my stomach growling from half a mile away if I don't bring snacks." Pippin reasoned.

Merry considered this. "Good idea. But quiet ones, no apples!"

"Merry, do I look like an idiot to you?"

"Well, your waistcoat is inside out."

With that, Pippin vaulted across the bed and knocked Merry to the floor with a playful howl of 'rage.' Laughing, Merry fought back, wrapping his legs around Pippin's waist and trying to flip him over to gain the high ground. But Pippin had been training in wrestling for just as long as Merry, and they were a fairly even match. The boys had grown up watching Fíli and Kíli tussle over the slightest disagreements, if the mood took them, and it was a habit they had picked up rather quickly – to Aunt Ellie's distaste.

The tumbled towards the doorway, each using every legal trick in the book. Given that they had been taught by Dwalin, it was a very big book. All of a sudden, Merry's head hit the wall and he began to see stars. His hand flew out and rapped the hard wood floor three times, and Pippin reluctantly sat up.

"Alright, Merry?"

Just as Merry sat up and opened his mouth, the door opened inwards, smacking him clean in the back of the skull. "Kakhuf inbarathrag!"

A delighted gasp came from the one who had opened the door, and Merry let out a groan that had nothing to do with pain.

"Meriadoc!" Bróin was grinning like one of their wolves when they spotted prey. "Did you just _swear_? Whatever will your ama say?"

Merry rubbed at his poor old head, and sent a wounded look to his dwarven cousin. "I don't know, but I doubt she'll be heard over your mama yelling at you for braining me."

Bróin laughed and offered Merry his hand, yanking the hobbit to his feet. "Sorry about that. Thought you'd like to know that you're running late for dinner. Though speaking of mothers and what they say, Pip, do you know that your waistcoat's inside out?"

* * *

If he were to be completely honest, Gimli would have to admit that he liked Rivendell. It was only his second time being there – his mother and Marta had purposefully bypassed it when they travelled to Erebor, and this was Gimli's first return to Eriador, much to his chagrin. He had wanted to accompany his hobbit cousins on their trips before, but it had never been the right time.

Of course, Gimli was rather certain now that this was a very, very bad time to be outside the safety of their mountain. He and Bragi made their way from the room they were sharing in a comfortable silence, and despite the darkness around him, he was looking forward to the feast. Elven food was not half bad.

But when they walked into the hall where the feast was to be held, Gimli was amazed to see a familiar yet unexpected face. "Legolas!" he cried, striding over to the blonde elf. "What are you doing here? Bit far for an elven princeling to wander, isn't it?"

"Hello Gimli," Legolas smiled wryly, bowing his head with a hand on his heart. "I was sent by my father, unlike you. You had to beg yours to allow you to leave the mountain, did you not?"

Gimli grinned, dodging the jab to return his own. "Ah, that makes sense, laddie. Too afraid to leave your little forest unless your Ada gives you a little kick out of the door."

The elf standing next to Legolas let out an odd choking noise, prompting Gimli to look at him for the first time. It was a stranger, so he was not much interested, but Legolas turned to his companion and smiled. "It is alright, Erestor, we are acquainted. This is Gimli, son of Lord Glóin of Erebor."

"At your service," Gimli nodded at Erestor, before turning his attention back to Legolas. "Too well acquainted, for my liking."

"Then forgive me for saving your life, child," replied the elf.

They bickered back and forth awhile, right up until they were seated beside each other at the table. Then, proper conversation began to seep through.

"I heard you had trouble on your way," said Legolas, concern etched into his face.

"Aye," said Gimli darkly, his eyes flickering over to Fíli. His cousin was seated on the same table as Lord Elrond at the far end of the hall, and he was laughing at something with Kíli. "We were lucky not to lose anyone. Other than poor old Bali."

"Strange," said the elf. "I had heard that dwarves cared little for the lives of their animals. That said, I've spent enough time with you and your kin to know that it is a myth, and I am sorry for it. My own journey was easier, but still one driven by necessity."

"Oh?"

Legolas' eyes roamed around the room, before returning to Gimli. "I would not speak of it here. Not until the council. These are dark matters and I know not how Lord Elrond and Gandalf wish to address them. But I will tell you that my tidings are not merry. And you see, over there, the man between Aragorn and Paladin? That is-"

"Boromir of Gondor!" Gimli realised with amazement.

"Exactly," said Legolas. "But he does not bear good news either, I fear."

"Bad news from all the world, it seems," muttered Gimli, stabbing a potato. "Are we surrounded by darkness on all sides?"

"Perhaps," Legolas said mildly. "But have hope, my friend. For there are many here from noble houses, of elves, men, dwarves and hobbits, and we are united by more than necessity. That cannot be a bad thing."

"No," Gimli's mouth twitched into a half-smile. "No, it cannot."

 **So, that was a bit of a lighter chapter, and a little bit of a filler. Still, I quite like most of it. What do you think? Any suspicions or questions so far?**

 **I really hope that you enjoyed it, please do review if you can and fancy it. It really makes my heart so happy :)**

 **Have an awesome day, and thanks for reading.**


	13. Chapter 13: The Council of Elrond

**I am, finally back. I know it has been two months, and I am sorry. This story is one of my biggest priorities, but since the last chapter it had to take a backseat to uni work. On the plus side, I have now finished my course and am waiting only on my grades and graduation, which means I have an enormous thank you to make.**

 **Thank** ** _you._** **Whether you've read from the beginning or from five minutes ago, whether you've read, followed, favourited, reviewed – thank you. Not only did the incredible support I have received give me the courage to apply to university, but it has got me through the darkest years of my life. I have mentioned before how much the readers of this story have held me up, and it is partly due to you that I have the confidence and strength to complete my course with confidence and joy.**

 **A special thank you must go to those who have reviewed. You have made me smile through floods of tears, you've made me cry (in a good way) and you've given me the warm and fuzzies more times than I can count. I truly care about each and every one of you, and hope you the best. I am so grateful for you all.**

 **So here is the long awaited chapter – I hope it's up to scratch, and it's a long'un for you.**

 **Thank you again, and please:**

 **Read, Enjoy, Review**

 **Chapter Thirteen: The Council of Elrond**

For the second day in a row, Bilbo woke early, but no nightmare had roused him, and he felt as well as if he had spent the last hundred years in the most blissful sleep possible. It surprised him, because he had lingered in the Hall of Fire until the small hours of the morning. It had felt like a last chance to enjoy the songs and stories passed from elf to man to dwarf to hobbit, before the council tomorrow.

Today.

Yet, somehow, the stillness of Rivendell had lessened his nerves on the day he had been dreading so fiercely. It was pleasantly warm and sunny for October, and seemed to be the perfect morning for a stroll. He nudged Dís gently to see if she wished to join him, but his wife simply moaned and rolled over, her arm wrapping around her stomach as if to cuddle herself in his absence.

And so Bilbo walked alone, wrapped so deeply in thought that he didn't notice the time until a loud bell rang out. His stomach lurched, and then grumbled – he was hungry, and he hadn't even noticed, but there was no time for eating now.

He knew what that bell meant, and it was not breakfast.

As soon as Bilbo had gathered his bearings, he scurried through the familiar halls of Rivendell, his heart beating quicker by the second. To his relief, he had not wandered too far from the arranged meeting place, and when he bustled onto the large, sheltered porch, people were still arriving.

Trying to look composed, Bilbo looked for Thorin, Dís and his boys, but it was a little hard when everyone else on the porch was so ridiculously tall. He peered through the legs of several elves, including Legolas – he did not look forward to hearing what news had driven Thranduil's precious son so far from home – but many were wearing robes, which complicated things.

There were a couple of men there, too, and Bilbo finally caught a glimpse of Kíli through between Boromir's legs. His son's brows were drawn low and his lips were pursed, but when Bilbo approached he relaxed and smiled.

"I was beginning to think that you weren't coming," Kíli said, grasping Bilbo's arm with just a little more force than necessary.

"Well, I'm here," Bilbo sighed, "and having missed breakfast at tha-"

"Here," Dís said with a wry smile, pressing a bread roll into his hands.

Relief warmed Bilbo from his nose to his toes. No matter what happened, no matter what dark doings were spoken of today, Bilbo would have his family – and his breakfast.

"Thank you," he said, his fingers lingering on her hand as he took it. "Truly. I hope the boys didn't give you any trouble?"

It was Thorin who answered. "No, though Frodo tried to argue his case once more. He finally relented when Fíli promised to tell him everything, and Kíli pointed out that we would likely be here all day long, without breaking for lunch."

"Good, good," murmured Bilbo, though the lack of lunch struck him as anything but 'good.' A part of Bilbo envied his nephew – he would give anything to have this matter pass him by completely.

"When we left the dining hall," continued Thorin, "Elrohir had Frodo and the other young ones prepared for a trip to some old training grounds, though there was no sign of Merry or Pippin. Eventually, Bodin informed us that they have gone to explore a hidden pool Fíli showed Pippin when they were very young." Thorin raised an eyebrow at Fíli, who grinned. "And Nelly's in bed reading."

"What?" Bilbo frowned. "That's not like her, is she alright?"

"She's fine," soothed Dís, massaging her abdomen with a meaningful glance. "Nothing a warm bath won't fix."

"Ah…" Bilbo understood immediately, and he nodded. "Well, that's that sorted, then."

As he spoke, Lord Elrond approached them, and a hush fell at once. Standing beside Bilbo, the elf put a hand on the hobbit's shoulder, and turned to the watching faces and spoke.

"This," he said, "is Master Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. Rarely have any come to Rivendell under more perilous conditions than he, or with greater a burden. It is this burden that we are here to discuss, for I fear it is what has driven each of you to my home. Take your seats, friends."

Bilbo was ushered to a seat on the left side of Gandalf, who was in turn at Elrond's left side. Beside Bilbo sat Kíli, then Fíli, Dís and Thorin, who was seated beside Boromir. The man looked disquieted at Elrond's words, and stared at the elven lord with pursed lips and a furrowed brow.

Elrond seemed to notice. "Yes, driven I say, including you, Boromir, son of Denethor. I believe that this meeting may make many things clear, that all may understand what peril is now before us. The tale is long, and begins many centuries ago, yet it must be told, that we may stand united against the threat of Mordor."

The moment the name of the dark land fell from Elrond's lips, Boromir shifted in his seat and Thorin's hands curled into fists. Even the elves looked unsettled, but no one replied.

In a calm, clear voice, Elrond began to talk. He spoke of Sauron in the days when he was known as Annatar, giver of gifts and knowledge, and of the forging of the rings of power. He spoke of alliances that had long been forgotten, and the friendship of Celebrimbor and the dwarves of Moria – Elrond's eyes lingered on Thorin – and of the rise and fall of Númenor. He spoke of Gil-galad, and Elendil and his sons, and the great Last Alliance that marched upon Mordor and halted Sauron at last.

He spoke of Isildur, cutting the ring from Sauron's finger.

He spoke of Isildur taking the ring for his own.

"So that is what became of the ring?" Boromir asked, as if speaking to himself. When all eyes fell upon him, he spoke more strongly. "If such a tale was ever told in the South, it has long since been forgotten. We believed that the Great Ring had perished."

"Alas," sighed Elrond, "for had it perished much may have been different, and many lives may have been spared. But Isildur took the ring, and despite my council he claimed it as wergild for the deaths of his father, and his brother. Yet the ring betrayed Isildur to his death, and thus some in the North name it Isildur's Bane. But three members of his company survived, and one, an esquire to the King, brought the shards of Elendil's sword to Rivendell, that they may be given to Isildur's son, who was but a child at the time."

A chill ran down Bilbo's spine, and he looked at Kíli. For a moment, he didn't see the determined, purposeful prince who stared at Elrond and drank in his every word. He saw his son as a child, being brought the shattered remains of Sting. The names in these stories belonged to people, real people, with hearts as real as Bilbo's. Hearts that loved, and ached, and bled.

"The Last Alliance never truly achieved its end. Sauron was diminished, but not destroyed – by the actions of Isildur, his ring was lost, and not unmade. The darkness endured. Many elves and mighty Men, and many of their friends, had been slaughtered in the war. Elendil and his sons were slain, Gil-galad was slain, and never again shall there be any such league of elves and Men, for the Firstborn decrease, while Men multiply. Our kindreds are estranged."

 _Do they have to be?_ In Bilbo's eyes, joining together to form a great alliance sounded like a rather good plan.

Elrond continued. "The Men of Westernesse diminished, and their cities fell into ruin. The Kingdom of Arnor fell to first foes, and then to weeds and wildflowers. Yet in the South, the realm of Gondor endured, and for a while grew in splendour. But as long years passed, the blood of Númenoreans mingled with that of lesser men, and the tree of kings withered, and the watch on Mordor slept. Evil crept into the Easternmost guard of Gondor, Minas Ithil that is now Minas Morgul, and home to foul creatures and dark foes. Osgiliath was left deserted, and now shadows walk in its ruins."

When the elven lord paused, Boromir stood up, tall and proud. "Give me leave, Master Elrond, to say more of Gondor, and of my errand, for from Gondor I came, and all should know what passes there. Believe not that in Gondor the blood of Númenor is spent, nor all its pride and dignity forgotten. By the strength of our arms and the spilling of our blood are your lands kept safe, and the great fires of Mordor kept at bay. The Tower of Guard, Minas Tirith, ever watches the dark lands, and if our eyes closed in the past it is not so now. We had a small battalion deployed in Ithilien, east of the River, that held until this June, but then sudden war came upon us, and we were swept away. Though we were outnumbered, that did not defeat us. There was a power we had never felt before. It could be seen, some said, like a great black horseman, who brought fear upon even the boldest, so that horse and man alike fled. A small remnant alone returned to the ruins of Osgiliath, which has been held as an outpost since the days of my father's youth. I was among the company that held the last bridge of the city, until it was destroyed behind us. Only four survived, my brother, myself and two others."

It was then that Bilbo noticed a sorrow in Boromir's eyes, glimmering faintly beneath the strength, courage and pride that the man displayed.

"And still we fight. We hold all the west shores of the Anduin, and though those who shelter behind us sing our praise, they offer little help. Now only from Rohan will men ride to us when we call. But I do not come seeking allies in war – it is said that the might of Elrond is in wisdom, not weapons. I come because of a riddle that the Lore-Masters of Minas Tirith cannot answer. On the eve of the attack on Ithilien, a strange dream came to my brother, a dream that came again many a night, and then came once to me."

The back of Bilbo's neck prickled as though static electricity was tiptoeing up his spine, and he leant forward in his seat, unable to tear his eyes from Boromir. There was a shadow across the young man's face, as though his thoughts were troubling and dark, but still light shone in his eyes – dimmed, but impossible to quench.

"In that dream I saw the eastern sky grow dark, and heard a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice, clear and remote, that cried:

 _Seek for the Sword that was broken:_

 _In Imladris it dwells;_

 _There shall counsels be taken_

 _Stronger than Morgul-spells_

 _There shall be shown a token_

 _That Doom is near at hand,_

 _For Isildur's Bane shall waken,_

 _And the Halfling forth shall stand."_

The prickling on the back of Bilbo's neck intensified uncomfortably, and his hand tightened around the ring in his pocket, almost against his will. Doom is near at hand? He certainly did not like the sound of that.

"My brother and I understood little of these words – we knew of halflings, of course –" Boromir paused to bow his head to Bilbo, "– but we could make little sense of the riddle. We spoke to our father, Lord Denethor, who is wise in lore, but all he would say was that Imladris was an elven name for a far northern dale, where dwelt Elrond the Halfelven. My brother was eager to heed the dream and seek Imladris, but the road is long and full of doubt and danger, so I took the journey upon myself."

"And here in Imladris, things will be made clear to you," said Elrond, nodding slightly at Aragorn, who stood, and walked to the table before Elrond.

Bilbo watched intently as the ranger placed a broken sword on the table – the blade that had long rested opposite the mural of Isildur cutting the ring from Sauron's hand.

"Here is the sword that was broken," said Aragorn, staring at Boromir. "The sword of Elendil, that has been treasured by his descendants when all other heirlooms were lost."

Boromir's eyes widened, then narrowed as he stared at Aragorn, looking from his face to his Ranger's garb. "Indeed? How came _you_ by the sword of Elendil?"

A couple of the elves of Elrond's household shifted angrily as if to rebuke Boromir, but Aragorn smiled.

"I understand your confusion, and your doubt. When first we met I was not of age, and went by the name Estel – the same name I used when last I visited Gondor. But my true name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I am the heir of Isildur."

Boromir's eyes widened again, and he stared at the sword, and then back at Aragorn. Before either man could speak, Elrond stood up. "And now the last part of your riddle may be put into place, Boromir, son of Denethor. Bring forth the ring, Bilbo."

Bilbo jumped slightly. He had been so entranced by the interactions of the two men that he had completely forgotten he was not a mere spectator himself. He hastily got to his feet, and then walked over to the table. It was stone, and almost as tall as he was. In the hush, Bilbo half thought he could hear his own heart beating. His hand closed around the ring, and as he pulled it from his pocket he was overcome with desire.

 _Put it on,_ a voice whispered in his mind, _disappear, keep it for yourself…_

The hobbit gazed up at Elrond, who gestured gracefully to the table.

 _Put it on, disappear, keep it for yourself…_

Fíli's pale, lifeless face flickered in Bilbo's mind.

 _Put it one, disappear, keep-_

 _Oh, shut up!_ Bilbo though fiercely, slamming the ring onto the table before the sword, with what was, perhaps, more force than necessary. Then he hurried back to his seat, and did not look back until he had sat down. His palms were sweating.

"Behold," said Elrond. "Isildur's Bane!"

A whisper ran around the circle, but Bilbo caught no words. Folk had gasped at intervals, creating a staggered sort of hiss, and all eyes were focused on the golden band. All eyes apart from Bilbo's – he was stubbornly looking anywhere but, and his gaze fell on Boromir. Mostly, the man looked confused and burdened, but there was a slight glint in his eyes.

Bilbo shifted in his seat and narrowed his own eyes a fraction, but he could see no malice or gold lust in Boromir's expression. To his great disgruntlement, he had become rather adept at identifying malice and gold lust over the last two decades. The latter, in particular, haunted many of his dreams to his day, but he did not see it before him, so he decided to give Boromir the benefit of the doubt.

"Then doom is nigh a hand?" Boromir murmured, half to himself again. "If that is indeed the meaning of the riddle, how might a broken sword help us?"

"It is soon to be renewed," said Aragorn. "Battle is at hand. And, if my hand may bring any help or hope, I will come to Minas Tirith."

Boromir stared at Aragorn, his expression unreadable, then looked back at the ring. "How do the wise know that this is the One Ring? How is it known that this is the ring Isildur bore? He perished ere this age began."

"That," Elrond said, smiling slightly at Bilbo, "is about to me told. Come, Master Baggins. The time has come to tell us your part of the tale."

Beside him, Kíli smothered a smile with a timely cough, and Bilbo swung his elbow subtly into his son's ribs as he shifted in his chair. Despite himself, Bilbo was more than happy to tell the story – or most of it – to such an attentive crowd, something that Kíli knew all too well.

"I came by this ring in the bowels of the Misty Mountains," he said, and then he plunged into the whole story. He explained how he had been torn from the goblin walkway, how he had blindly stumbled into Gollum's cave, how he had picked up a strange ring from the floor and then played riddles to save his life. He told of his few uses of the ring, and off the strange instances where it seemed too big and fell from his finger.

He noticed that Gandalf's eyes narrowed at the mention of Bofur's brief possession of the ring, and when Bilbo described Bofur returning the ring in Mirkwood, the wizard sighed and closed his eyes. But he did not interrupt, so Bilbo carried on, telling the rest of the room about his own uses of the ring, the trouble it had caused in the great battle, and the Wizard's suspicions. He told of Gandalf's increasing warnings not to use the ring, and then of their last trip to the Shire.

It was then that it got a little harder to speak. How could he find the words to describe the wraith-like Gandalf appearing at his door? He did his best, swallowed his shock, and carried on without a hiccup, until it came to Weathertop. Then his voice shook a little.

 _It's a story, and you'd think it a good story if you didn't know Fíli,_ he tried to convince himself. _Just a story._

His heart began to pound again as he described the attack of the Nazgûl, and it stoppered his throat when he tried to explain what Fíli had done. He stared at his son's bright, blue eyes, so full of life, and Fíli gave a soft smile in return. Bilbo took his deep breath, readjusted his courage, and continued.

He spoke of Gandalf's healing, and how it had seemed to tire the wizard (he decided against using the word 'weakened,' for he was not sure Gandalf would like it, and Bilbo did not fancy being turned into a toad.) Nevertheless, his poetic flair returned, and he described the flight to the fords more strongly, only hushing his voice for dramatic tension. He was rather proud of his description of white, river foam horses had swept the Nazgûl away, even when Thorin rolled his eyes after the fourth adjective.

Bilbo made a mental note to remind Thorin of his own long winded speeches later. At least the hobbit's words sounded pretty.

He rounded off his story with an account of the attack on Thorin's group, and was quite pleased that neither the king nor Aragorn had to interject and correct him at any point. Finally, he ended, with a satisfied, "But we all made it safely to Rivendell in the end, and here we are."

Silence followed him for a long moment as his words were digested. All too quickly, the excitement and story-lust died, and Bilbo gazed at his sons.

Because of _that_ ring Fíli was stabbed – but without it, his boys may have died decades ago. In the Battle of the Five Armies, the ring was all that allowed Bilbo to defend Kíli as long as he had. Without the ring, Kíli would be dead, and looking back Bilbo was sure that Fíli would have followed. And so would he.

 _Keep them safe,_ the voice in his mind whispered kindly. _Put me it, and keep them safe forever._

 _I thought I told you to shut up?_ he thought back fiercely, but the soft voice laughed.

 _Keep it, put it on and keep them safe forever,_ it replied. _Truth cannot be silenced. Your_ heart _cannot be silenced – put it on. Put it on, and your family will pass all the ages of the world in splendour and glory._

Bilbo gritted his teeth, and his face contorted into a scowl. _You're lying. Shut up._

 _Your heart cannot be silen-_

"Bilbo?"

Bilbo jumped so high that he actually left his chair for a moment, and it took him a moment to catch his bearings. It was no longer silent, people were muttering, but they were not looking at him, their heads were bowed, and –

"Are you alright?" Kíli said in a low, urgent voice. "Bilbo, what's wrong?"

"What?" asked the hobbit, rather stupidly.

"You look like you're in pain," said Kíli. He was leaning over the arm of his chair to be closer to the hobbit, and he looked highly concerned.

"Me? Oh, no, no, Kíli, I'm fine. I was just lost in thought, that's all," hurried Bilbo, patting Kíli's arm. "Nothing to worry about."

"Don't lie to me, Bilbo," Kíli mumbled, his bottom lip sticking out slightly. He looked as though the hobbit had just taken away his pudding.

"Oh, don't be a baby," scolded Bilbo with a smile, swatting his son's knee. "You know well enough how my face makes expressions of its own accord. It can be quite –"

"The tale continues," said Elrond, and mutters died mid-word, "with Gandalf."

All eyes fell on the wizard, who smiled at Bilbo and then cleared his throat. "As told by Master Baggins, I had suspicions about his ring from the moment I knew him to have it. I did not suppose it to be _the_ ring, of course, or I would have taken action much sooner. What I did fear was that it was some other thing of evil design, though still it did not seem an urgent matter. When I accompanied the Bagginses back to the Shire, the more pressing matter seemed to be that of goblins and rogue dwarves, so that was what I set my mind to. Yet I could not calm the doubt in my heart. As some here will remember, in that same year, the White Council moved against the Necromancer in Dol Guldur, whom I had discovered to be Sauron himself, taking form and power again. We banished him from the ruins and drove his evil from Mirkwood, but he took residence in Mordor once more, and the Dark Tower was rebuilt."

"So that's where you were when we were getting attacked by spiders and elves and dragons!" exclaimed Kíli, though he sounded awed, rather than annoyed. When he noticed that he had spoken so loudly, he went as red as Bilbo's good jacket.

Gandalf chuckled, though his voice was still heavy. "Yes, my dear Kíli. That is where I was. And I strove to seek out Sauron, and destroy him while still he was weak, but though the council agreed, Saruman dissuaded us. He claimed that the Dark Lord's hope would cheat him, and that he could never return to power without the ring. He claimed that the ring could never be found. It was when I rode towards Orthanc to report our dealings with Smaug to Saruman that his words came back to me, and a fear filled me. What if the Necromancer had grown strong by the reappearance of the ring? I had to know, yet I was hesitant to consult my fellow wizard. At the time, I merely wished to avoid adding another burden to a dear friend – I would not add any more toil to the life of Bilbo Baggins without proof."

Heart swelling, Bilbo smiled at Gandalf, who nodded at him with a sad smile of his own.

"I worried, at times, that sparing Bilbo another burden might destroy us all, but whether by fate or instinct I did not stop at Isengard. Instead, I rode to Gondor. At Minas Tirith I poured through many scrolls in search of lore on the rings of power, with the help of the steward's enthusiastic young sons," he nodded at Boromir, who frowned in memory.

"You had us search for lettering we knew not. You made it a game," he said, before staring at the wizard with the satisfaction of one who has learnt the answer to a long-forgotten riddle. "So that was your purpose…"

"Indeed, and you helped wonderfully." Another small smile tugged at the wizard's lips. Bilbo was pleased to note that his cheeks looked much fuller now. The hobbits' constant feeding was paying off. "I learnt much, including the fact that, unlike the Nine, the Seven and the Three, the One ring bore no gem. It was round and unadorned like the lesser rings – thus I knew that Bilbo's ring was either the One, or a lesser ring. Still, it seemed to me that the latter was more likely, but I pressed on, until I found an account of five lesser rings – bands of gold, silver and bronze that turned the wearer invisible, and I breathed again. In that moment, I made a grave mistake: I left the libraries of Minas Tirith, and attended other matters. For much was amiss in the world, and this was not the only matter of importance at the time. On Durin's Day, however, when Thorin was crowned King Under the Mountain and I watched his family and the hobbits, my fear grew once more. I confided in Legolas, and asked him to keep watch on the mountain –"

"You did _what_?" Thorin growled, glaring at Gandalf. Beside him, Dís pinched the bridge of her nose, and Bilbo saw her lips form the words, 'give me strength.'

As ever, Gandalf was not concerned by Thorin's temper. "I asked Legolas to keep an eye on the mountain and ensure that no trouble came from Bilbo's ring. I needed someone that I could trust, who could watch without interference, and who knew of the danger that could be posed, should my worst fears be realised. I will confess that I was unsure of my wisdom in confiding in anyone, but it has proved useful. Then, at last, I went to Saruman. I told him not of Bilbo's ring, but asked him more of the Necromancer, and then posed my little theory – what if the ring had remerged, and spurned its master into action? Saruman promised that my fears were unfounded. Again, I wished to belief him, but could not shake my doubt. So I searched for the creature, Gollum."

Bilbo was watching the wizard intently, as were most, but out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Dís prod Thorin's knee, sharply.

"It was fruitless, so again I turned to other matters of – what I deemed – equal or greater importance. The ring fell to the back of my mind, until seven years ago." Gandalf sighed heavily. "I received word from Beorn, chieftain of the Beornings, that some among his kin had come across strange tracks, and that their herds had been attacked by something that lurked in the night – something that preyed on the young, and climbed through windows to find cradles."

Boromir made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat, and Bilbo quite agreed, though he was surprised to see Gandalf smile at Boromir. It was a grim, satisfied sort of smile, and it made Bilbo shiver lightly.

"You will be pleased to hear, I think, that this creature found a cradle that held Beorn's grandson. Though he was a mere babe at the time, he, transformed into a bear cub and either fought or scared off his attacker before any lasting harm could be done."

Fíli snorted and Kíli smirked, and Bilbo's heart calmed a little.

"I believed, as did Beorn, that the creature was none other than Gollum, and my interest in the ring returned. I was near Mirkwood when I discovered this, so I left Beorn and his hunters to track the creature and hastened to Erebor, where I warned Bilbo to be on his guard, and keep the thing secret and safe. Then, I journeyed to Minas Tirith with all the haste I had. There was no doubt in my mind that Beorn would catch his prey where even I could not, for he has the senses of a bear, and wolves at his command, and I felt that I had left my last search of Denethor's library short. And, alas, I had. It took me not five hours to discover a scroll that had been written by Isildur himself."

Bilbo could not help but gasp softly at this, and he was not the only one. His fingers twitched, as if reaching for this lost piece of history, and he listened so intently that he half thought he heard the buzzing of his own ears.

"Therein, he described the Ring that he took from Sauron, and proclaimed it to be an heirloom of his house. He told of the inscription, that faded as the ring cooled – _'a secret only fire only fire can tell' –_ and there he traced the inscription itself. Resolution took me; I would fly straight to Erebor again, and set my mind to rest, for better or worse. But alas, it was not to be."

At this point, Gandalf gave his longest pause yet, and the silence was so heavy that Bilbo was sure no one could be breathing.

"Beorn crossed my path before I even left the lands of Gondor, following Gollum's trail in one, unmistakeable direction: he was going to Mordor. Terror seized me, and I rode to catch him with renewed haste. If Sauron discovered that Bilbo held the One Ring, or even that he had a lesser ring that _could_ be the one, he would stop at nothing to slaughter Bilbo and take his own back. The world would be cast into darkness – and it would not be difficult for him, for it is no secret that the Baggins family make regular trips across a dangerous road. I was resolved that this would _not_ happen. Yet when we reached the Morgul Vale, Beorn was forced to turn back – he has lands of his own to tend. I followed Gollum's trail alone, and was captured."

"Captured?" cried Kíli, unheeding of the eyes that turned to him.

One of the elves, Galdor of the Grey Havens, if Bilbo remembered correctly, was glaring at Kíli as if to scold him for interrupting. In return, Thorin was glowering at the elf with cold fury. Bilbo was not fooled. He knew that his brother-in-law had been craving a reason to grow angry at an elf ever since they had arrived.

Kíli, however, knew none of this. Or, more likely, he did not care.

" _You_ were captured?" he continued, looking aghast, concerned, afraid, and furious all at once.

"Yes, Kíli, I was captured. And held prisoner in Minas Morgul for seven years."

Bilbo's heart fell all the way down to his toes, and ached as if his feet were kicking it back and forth like a ball. For any friend, let alone one as dear as Gandalf, to be imprisoned for seven years was unfathomable.

"The details of that time are unimportant, but there are riddles here that even I cannot place. I know not if Gollum was in league with the enemy all along, when he was captured, or even if he was captured at all. When at last I managed to escape, news of the ring's discovery seemed only just to have reached Mordor, for the Nine Ringwraiths set out a week after me. I feared they had been sent to reclaim me, but Radagast the Brown found me first. He leant me his staff and a strong horse, and I did all in my power to reach Erebor. The Nine had beat me there – I learnt from Balin that Black Riders had come to ask for Bilbo Baggins, and for the King. I could not rest, nor could I despair. The race, as you may say, was on. I found a horse, and rode with all haste for the Shire. As Bilbo has said, I arrived but minutes before the riders. You have already heard how we came to Rivendell. After that, and a decent discussion, Lord Elrond, Bilbo and I cast the ring into a fire. When heated, words appeared – the Black Speech in elvish letters."

And then Gandalf spoke with so stony and cold a voice that Bilbo shrank back into his chair and drew his shoulders up to his ears.

 _"Ash_ _nazg_ _durbatulûk, ash nazg_ _gimbatul, ash nazg_ _thrakatulûk,_ _agh_ _burzum-ishi_ _krimpatul!"_

All the elves clamped hands over their ears, save Elrond, who winced fiercely. When the wizard had finished, the elf spoke in a harder voice than Bilbo had ever heard. "Never before has any voice dared to utter the words of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey."

"And I hope none will ever speak it here again," answered Gandalf, looking wearier than ever. "But I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond, for if doubt is not cast aside and we do not unite in the face of this evil, that tongue will be heard in every corner of the West. Every corner of Arda, in fact. The lines written on the ring are Sauron's intentions for it:

 _One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the Darkness bind them."_

After a moment that lasted a lifetime, Galdor said softly, "But what of Saruman? He is well learned in ring-lore, what it his counsel? You have spoken of avoiding Orthanc as if it was lucky you did so, but I see not why that would be true."

Gandalf closed his eyes. "Had I gone to Isengard, all might already be lost. I had no time to stop on the way to the Shire, and I planned to visit only when I knew the Baggins family were safe. The very day that we reached Rivendell, so did another wizard: Radagast the Brown."

Bilbo's eyes widened a fraction – he had not known that. But then, he had spent the first few days at Fíli's side, and nothing else seemed to be important, even when Elrond and Gandalf had made him throw his ring in a fireplace.

"Much relieved was he to find me here, for he had been desperately seeking Lord Elrond, and his tidings were very dark." Gandalf's hands tightened around his staff as if to steady himself. "He received words from his birds that masses of orcs were sprawling in Isengard, and he hastened to Saruman's aid. But he found that the 'head' of our order needed no help, at least not the sort that Radagast would willingly supply. Saruman gestured at the orcs – which Radagast noted were larger and more man-like than any he had seen before – and referred to them as his army of uruk-hai. The time was come, he said, for great things from the great Istari, and that it was time for Radagast to put away trivial matters of bird and beast and serve Saruman's great purpose."

 _I bet that didn't go down well,_ thought Bilbo. The faces of all the council were dark and concerned, save Elrond, who looked defeated and weary.

But Gandalf continued.

"'What purpose?' asked Radagast, 'What could justify the spawning of this evil?' And by his report, Saruman replied: 'The purpose of Saruman the great, the ring-maker. It is time, Radagast, that we might rule the world of men. The Nazgûl are riding, Radagast. They seek Baggins, the seek the _One,_ and you and I both know who Baggins is. We might find Baggins first. We might be the most powerful Lords of Middle-Earth.' And Radagast was afraid and dismayed, but whatever Saruman thinks, he is not a foolish fellow. He knew that Saruman had never viewed him as powerful, let alone a lord, and he asked, 'What of Gandalf? What says he? He is a friend of Baggins.' And…" Gandalf paused, a cold bitterness in his eyes. "Saruman laughed. 'For nigh on seven years Gandalf has been the prisoner of Sauron, held in Minas Morgul. His greatness is spent, Radagast.' And it is worth noting that he failed to tell Radagast I had escaped, though I doubt not Saruman knew this. _How_ he knew, I do not know. And what he did not know was that _Radagast_ knew I had escaped. 'What would you have me do?' he asked, but too hastily, I deem, for Saruman knows that ever Radagast was fonder of me, and far too loyal and honest to turn to treachery. 'Abide with me,' said the White Wizard, 'and assist in the greatness that is to come.' Pretty words for 'be my prisoner.' However," Gandalf smiled grimly, "ever has Saruman underestimated Radagast. On that very day, Radagast sent a message to the great eagles of the Misty Mountains. When night fell, and Saruman was engaged with his army, Radagast slipped out of a window onto the back of Gwaihir, the Windlord himself, and escaped. Thence he came straight to Elrond."

"It is grievous news," the elf lord said, "and it burdened my heart to hear it. For we trusted Saruman, and he was deep in our counsels. Yet it is unwise to study too deeply the arts of the enemy, for good or evil. So, the tale of the Ring has been told, from first to last. What shall we do with it?"

"What of the man who sheltered your company?" asked Galdor. "This Tom Bombadil? He seemed to have some power, even of the ring. Could he not help?"

"I do not think so," said Gandalf at once. "I would not say that he has power over the ring, only that it holds no power of him. But he would not leave his lands for anything, nor I deem, would he take the ring unless all the peoples of the earth begged him. Even if he did, he would likely soon forget it or throw it away. He would be a most unsafe guardian."

"And to send the ring to him now would be nigh on impossible," said Glorfindel, "without it falling into enemy hands. It would only postpone the day of evil. Could Bombadil alone withstand all the might of the enemy? I doubt it. If all else is conquered, I think that Bombadil too will fall. Last, perhaps, as he was first, but fall he will. And then night will fall. The ring cannot be kept away from the enemy forever – there are naught who have the strength. So we have two choices: To send it over the sea, or to destroy it."

"Those over the sea would not take it," said Elrond. "For good or evil it belongs to Middle-Earth. And there is only one path: the ring must be destroyed. It must be cast back into the fires of Mount Doom, from whence it came."

"Why speak you only of hiding and destroying?" asked Boromir. "Saruman is a traitor, but that does not make him a fool – there is wisdom yet in his words. The ring has come to us, to the free people, in our hour of great need. Let us use it, to grant strength and weapons to we who will not fall, that the Free Lords might vanquish the enemy forever by the doom of his own design. Let the ring be our weapon, if it has as much strength as you claim. Let us take it, and win victory at last!"

"No," said Gandalf harshly. "It cannot be used by us – it belongs to Sauron and was made by him alone, and is all together evil."

Elrond's voice was calmer and sadder than the wizard's. "It is known all too well that none can wield the ring at will, save those with great power already. Yet for them the danger is tenfold, for the desire of the ring corrupts the heart. If one of the Wise wore the ring – Saruman for instance – they would cast down the Dark Lord, but only to take his mantle and throne for their own. Even should Gandalf take it in good faith with pure intentions, he would be corrupted. I fear to take the ring to hide it, and I _will_ not take it to wield."

"Nor will I," said Gandalf.

For a long moment, Boromir stared at them both, doubt in his eyes and a frown on his lips. But at last he bowed his head. "So be it. We must trust to such weapons as we have, and Gondor, at least, will fight on. With or without hope. For though I will not ask for aid, we need it. We bear the brunt of Mordor's wrath. The sword that was broken would bring great hope – if the one who wielded it had inherited more than a broken heirloom from his sires of old." Then his eyes rested on Aragorn.

"Who can say?" shrugged the other man. "But as I said, I shall help your people, if ever I can."

"Indeed, the men of Gondor fight valiantly," said Legolas, speaking for the first time. "But they are not the only folk under the shadow of war. Dol Guldur is occupied once more, with thousands of orcs, and with spiders larger even than those that plagued our lands two decades ago."

Bilbo, Thorin, Fíli and Kíli all shuddered.

Legolas continued. "Attacks come every week, and though they may be small now, the smallest drip of water can wear away stone if it falls often enough. Yet my father doubts the attacks on our kingdom are anything other than a distraction to keep us from our allies. Thrice since Gandalf rode west have messengers of Mordor visited New Dale and Erebor. On the third time they declared that war was coming, and Sauron's wrath would fall upon all who did not yield before him. My father bade me tell Lord Elrond of the reoccupation of Dol Guldur, and Thorin Stonehelm gave me a message for Thorin Oakenshield, imploring him to return to the mountain as soon as possible, before war crashes down upon them. It has not broken out yet, but the lands of the North East are holding their breath."

Bilbo glanced at the dwarven king, and noticed that his hands were clenched around an envelope with a broken seal, and thanked his lucky stars that Legolas had thought to give Thorin the message in private and not spring it on him in front of the whole council.

Stern and proud as ever, Thorin said, "The dwarves of Erebor will not fall, with or without their king, until the light is gone from all ends of the earth and the Dark Lord himself crashes down upon our doors. That said, I must return to my people as soon as I can."

There was a general nod and murmur of assent, that lulled into quiet once more. Finally, Boromir spoke.

"My heart is heavy to hear it – my memories of those lands are fair and joyful. Yet returning to the matter of destroying the ring," he said, "the path you propose is folly. One does not simply walk into Mordor – there is evil there that does not sleep. The great eye is always watching. How do you propose to enter that land and find the fire?"

Gandalf cleared his throat. "Folly it may seem, but it is also necessary. To destroy it we must travel to Mount Doom, and destroy it we must. Yet the hopelessness of this task may well shield us, for Sauron could not fathom another wishing to destroy the ring, instead of taking it for themselves. Therefore, he will not expect attack in such a way. There is no question in my mind that this is the path that must be taken. What must now be decided is who will do this."

Silence fell, thicker and heavier than ever. It poured down Bilbo's nose and throat, suffocating him, smothering him until he could not bear it anymore. There was one person who should do this – someone who had put their family in danger, and yet had a small chance to right his wrongs.

Finally, he drew in a breath and said, "I will take it."

Beside him, Kíli gave a choked gasp, and stared at him with wide, horrified eyes. Swallowing, Bilbo looked away, and focused on Gandalf.

"I will take the ring to Mordor," the hobbit said, glancing then at Elrond, "though I do not know the way."

His grey eyes boring into Bilbo, Elrond said, "You have displayed a remarkable resilience to its power. Yet for a halfling you are not young…"

Though there was no offense in Elrond's tone, Bilbo's chest puffed out and he raised his chin. "No, but I am not old. I have a good few decades in me yet, if the Valar permit, and I am scarce less fit than I was at fifty. Any hobbit of seventy would be able to traipse the earth at need. We do not look it, but we are hardy folk."

Elrond smiled. "Very well. It seems that this task is appointed to you, Bilbo Baggins. Yet I will not lay it upon you – it is a heavy burden, and you must be willing to take it yourself."

"I am willing," said Bilbo though he felt very sick. "I'm very fond of the good in this world, and the free people." Though he could not bring himself to look at his family, that was where his heart turned. "And I would save them, if I can."

Elrond did not speak, and stared at Bilbo for a long moment. Then, the elven lord stood up and bowed deeply at the hobbit, and Bilbo felt himself go bright red.

"I will help you bear this burden, Bilbo Baggins," said Gandalf, placing his hand on Bilbo's. "As long as it is yours to bear. We will not send you alone into the dark."

"No, we will not," said Kíli, his voice tight. Bilbo could stand it no more, and he gazed back at his son. Kíli's jaw was clenched, and his hands were white around the arms of his chair. His gaze was misted over, and he was incredibly pale. But beneath the tears in his eyes, there was pride and terror and sorrow and determination and Bilbo could see it all. See it all in those deep, brown eyes. "I'm coming with you."

Bilbo shook his head and Thorin and Dís both took sharp intakes of breath, but Gandalf spoke before they could. His voice was wearier than ever before. "I think the details of who will go should receive much thought, and it need not be decided right away."

"Indeed," said Elrond, "for you cannot leave until scouts deem it to be clear. Even those of you with urgent matters in other places," he bowed his head to Thorin, "for there may yet be orcs or wraiths in the land. You may rest here for a time, while things are decided."

"And we will have say in these decisions," said Thorin tightly. It looked like a storm was trapped in his fathomless blue eyes, but even after all these years, Bilbo could not read his expression. "Bilbo's protection will not rest solely in the hands of elves."

"No," agreed Elrond diplomatically. "It will not – of course you will have a say. For now, Bilbo, take the ring and put it away, somewhere safe."

Only minutes after this, with a few formalities that Bilbo did not hear, and the council was disbanded. Aragorn left immediately with Elladan to fetch Elrohir – they were to scour the nearby lands, and make contact with the Rangers.

But Bilbo did not leave the porch, and neither did Kíli, Fíli, Dís, Thorin or Gandalf. The wizard sighed heavily when Elrond left them alone with a last bow of the head.

"Are you sure of this Bilbo?" he said.

"No," interjected Fíli. "He is not, at least he shouldn't be if there's any sense in his head."

"I am sure," Bilbo said softly, and Gandalf squeezed his shoulder.

"I must speak with Glorfindel," he said. "But I will return to talk with you soon, my dear friend."

And then he left the family alone. Immediately, Fíli spoke again.

"Don't. Don't do this Bilbo."

The hobbit smiled sadly at his oldest son. There was such fire in his blue eyes, so much like his mother and uncle's, but such panic, too. "Who else could it be? Who would you damn to that fate?"

"Not my father," Fíli whispered, his voice wavering.

Bilbo's heart stumbled and his mouth fell open slightly. He turned to Dís, whose eyes were blank, and trained on the floor. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, and she did not look up. Thorin met his gaze, and shook his head ever so slightly. Kíli, like his mother, was staring at the ground.

"Fíli," Bilbo said at last, putting a hand on the young dwarf's arm, "you must understand. If not me, someone else's father or brother or son must go. This is my fate."

Fíli stared at him for a long moment, his jaw shaking and his eyes brimming with tears. And then he turned, and strode away without looking back.

Taken aback, Bilbo called after him in a strangled voice. "Fíli? Fíli!"

"Let him go," Dís murmured, her eyes still on the floor. "Let him go, Bilbo."

Guilt and shame broiled along with the fear and doubt in his stomach, and he stared desperately at Thorin – the only one who would meet his eyes. "Tell me you understand," he begged. "You must know why I, why I..."

"We know," Dís whispered, and Thorin smiled sadly and tiredly.

He stepped forward, and put his hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "We know why you volunteered, and so does Fíli. And I for one am proud o– it was a brave choice, and an honourable one. Yet _you_ must understand that none of us may be glad of your decision. Especially when we cannot all protect you. For all you have done for us, and for our friendship I would go with you to the ends of the earth, but I cannot abandon my people when war is upon us."

"I, I understand, really, I do," Bilbo hung his head and closed his eyes, though he could not manage to do so before his tears fell. "I'm sorry. I am sorry to put you through more pain."

He heard the scrape of a chair on flagstones, and then he felt a strong, tight pair of arms knock Thorin away and wrap around Bilbo's chest so tightly he could scarcely breathe. The hobbit's own arms wrapped around his Kíli with almost equal strength, and he wished that he would never be forced to let go.

Then Kíli pulled away and took a deep breath. "Well, you're to face punishment for that soon enough."

"How do you mean?" Bilbo frowned. If you asked him, the unavoidable horror he would face on the journey would surely be punishment enough.

Kíli gave a heavy, sad smile. "You'll have to tell the others."

 **I really hope you enjoyed that chapter! It was an awesome challenge to meld together the book, the films and my own intentions, so I really hope that it worked for you – let me know what you think, I always love your feedback.**

 **Thank you for reading (and waiting) and have a lovely day.**


	14. Chapter 14: The Soldier's Sacrifice

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and hello to my newer readers! This one's up a wee bit later than I'd hoped, but it's a busy time. Anyways, I hope that you enjoy this next one as much as you did the council. It's so interesting to hear all your theories and guesses, I'm loving them :)**

 **As usual, I'm sorry for any mistakes that there are in this chapter!**

 **Read, Enjoy, Review.**

 **Chapter Fourteen # The Soldier's Sacrifice #**

As Bilbo and his family finally trailed away from the porch, a pair of deep blue eyes narrowed in a tree above them. They watched a pair of young hobbits dive from the cover of the bushes and scurry across the porch, their heads bowed in frantic discussion. The eyes watched them go and narrowed further. A soft hiss left dry lips, and was snatched up with a gentle , skilled hands tightened around the tree branches, and soft and quick as a shadow, something dropped onto the forest floor below.

Something had to be done.

Bilbo Baggins would not take the ring.

Not this time.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon by the time Bilbo found Fíli – or rather by the time that Fíli let himself be found. He was sitting on a small bridge, staring with narrow eyes into the stream below. His bare feet dangled but an inch above the water. When Bilbo approached, the dwarf's eyes were hard, but his mouth twitched in an echo of a smile.

"Can I sit with you?" asked Bilbo quietly.

"Yes."

Bilbo sat down, and took a deep breath. "I understand why you're upset, Fíli. I understand why you're angry."

"Do you?" Fíli's voice was deceptively mild.

"Yes," said Bilbo firmly. "To do such a quest as this – it's no there and back again, no treasure hunt. And if, when, I go, that will cause you pain and worry. But at the end of the day, I'm just one little hobbit who got swept off the path –"

Fíli turned to stare at him with such speed that Bilbo jumped. "You think that's all it is? You think I am upset because your going will hurt me?"

Bilbo blinked. "I, uh, well I don't mean –"

"You are not thinking," Fíli said, his eyes boring into Bilbo's with such deep sorrow that the hobbit had to look down. "I have known the sacrifice of a soldier since I was a child. I knew when I was five years old and my father left this world – that sacrifice for honour and for family is the greatest gift one can give. I know that the brave must fight for what is right regardless of how their family feel, and I would not hinder you because it made me sad. But you've chosen a path that will sunder us, and that is harder to bear."

It felt as though shards of ice had been tipped into Bilbo's stomach. "What are you talking about?"

"Kíli will go with you," Fíli replied, his eyes glistening. "And there will be no 'if's, 'how's or 'but's. Should you leave him behind he would follow you by stealth 'til the ends of the earth. And so would I, if I could. But I can't. War is coming, and a prince must return to the mountain with the King."

A dull horror struck Bilbo, and he shook his head. "I would have you both in the mountain."

"But you won't." Fíli said. "Kíli will go with you. And Thorin will have no choice but to order me to return with him – we must protect our people, and if we hold two lives greater than the lives of thousands, we have no right to rule. Even, even if the value is such in our hearts. And I will not be able to protect my brother, and I will not be able to protect my father, and I may lose both again."

At this, Fíli took a deep breath and turned his face away, closing his eyes. He pursed his lips, and they stopped quaking.

"I am sorry for walking away," he said, in a tone that was hollow, yet strong. "It was not very mature, or courteous. But when I realised what my duty would have me do, when I realised that I would have to surrender the care of you and Kíli to others…"

Feeling as though he had been flung out of a window and caught by a hurricane, Bilbo stared at the dwarf for a long moment. Then, finally, he took a deep breath. When he spoke, he was unashamed of the tremor in his voice. "I am so proud of you."

Fíli looked up, startled. "What?"

"I am so proud of you," Bilbo repeated, unable to stop himself from tucking Fíli's hair behind his ear, and squeezing the prince's forearm. "You have come so far, and suffered so much, yet you are one of the strongest, most selfless people I have ever had the honour of meeting. It is a privilege far greater and a title far better than any king could ever give to be called your father."

Fíli's eyes filled with tears, and then he threw his arms around Bilbo and hugged him so hard that the hobbit feared for his ribs. Someday soon, one of his dwarves would break him. And chances were that he would not care then, either.

"I am not happy about this," Fíli whispered, pulling away. "But I am proud, and honoured, to call you my father."

Smiling through tears, Bilbo sighed and slapped his knees. "Well know, there's no point sitting here and being all sappy when there are things to do, and days left to spend together."

Fíli sighed, and threw his arm around Bilbo's shoulders. "I suppose you're right. And because you have been so kind, I will help you now."

"Help me? With what?"

"I'll help you break the news to the others."

* * *

It was safe to say that the others were not impressed.

"You said _what?"_ cried Ori, his face losing colour. "Bilbo, that's a suicide mission!"

Dwalin did not seem to have processed the council's conclusion yet. "That prissy princess' prat of a son's been watching our mountain?"

"Try saying that five times fast," Saradoc muttered to Paladin, who did not smile.

"That's hardly the important part," Esme replied to Dwalin, ignoring her husband. "Bilbo's decided to waltz off into Mordor."

"Well, it's done now, so we're going to have to make the best of it," declared Bilbo. "I am going, and that is that. And as few people as possible should come with me. I don't want anyone getting hurt."

"I'm going," said Kíli again.

Before Dís and Thorin could argue, Bilbo sighed. "Yes, yes, we know Kíli. Tying you up in Thranduil's dungeon wouldn't keep you away, we know."

"Bad example," tutted Bofur, though his eyes were darker than usual. "We got out of Thranduil's dungeon."

"The point is," pressed Bilbo, "we know have to decide who's doing what. And preferably decide before we tell the younger ones. Frodo may be of age, but the others are not."

"And they must be kept safe," said Ellie, quietly but firmly. "Whether they like it or not. I fear that the latter is more likely."

"I hope you're not considering _me_ one of the younger ones," said Gimli, puffing up his chest. He had spent the day wrestling with Bragi, Ehren and Soren, rather than going with Elrohir.

Bilbo pursed his lips. "No, I suppose not."

"Good," said Gimli. "Because I'm older than _Fíli_ was during the quest for Erebor."

"Moreover, your parents deemed you old enough to travel without a direct guardian," said Ellie. "That is not the case for the others. If my heart had its way I would send them to the Shire, all of them, but I fear that would bring great danger upon them. They would be safer in the mountain, yet it is over twice the distance, and much can happen on the road."

"They won't like being told what to do," said Kíli darkly. "Not in this case."

"Well they won't have a choice," said Esme, folding her arms and flashing her eyes as if to challenge him. Kíli just winked at her.

"The elves have said that they may have refuge here," Bilbo explained. "Lord Elrond made it clear that any who don't wish to leave can stay here, for as long as they need. And I personally think all the children should stay. It's down to their guardians, obviously, but that's my thoughts. Frodo, perhaps Sam too might be allowed to return to Erebor, for I'm afraid they would simply follow on anyway if they were left behind."

A general murmur of assent ran around the room.

"As for us," said Thorin, commanding all the eyes in the room to him. "I must return to Erebor, though I am loath not to accompany Bilbo. And," his eyes flashed almost fearfully to Fíli, "I regret that –"

"I know," said Fíli softly, nodding a little. "I must go with you."

Kíli's eyes widened in horror and his mouth fell open, but then he closed it and looked down.

Thorin looked surprised, but grimly proud of his heir, and he bowed. "Dwalin, Nori, I would have one of you go with Bilbo."

"That'd be me," said Nori, before Dwalin could speak. The warrior looked affronted, but for once there was no sign of taunting on Nori's face. "My skills lie in sneaking. Dwalin's lie in open war. Doesn't make any sense to take me back to Erebor to fight a war and send Mr Clunky-feet over here on a top secret stealth mission."

Dwalin stared at Bilbo and Kíli for a long moment, before nodding. "Aye, there's sense in that."

"I will go," said Bragi, standing up from where he had leant against a table. "I swore to protect that stupid little prince, and I won't stop now."

Fondness swelled Bilbo's heart, and he smiled sadly at the albino. "We are going to Mordor, Bragi. No job or post could hold you to go there, I wouldn't want you to feel pressured to."

"That's why I'm so fond of you," Bragi insisted, bowing at Bilbo and Kíli. "And why I will go, and protect you in any way I can."

"Guess that means I'm trotting back to Erebor," Soren said, nodding at Fíli.

"Aye," said Thorin slowly, and then his eyes fell on his sister. "Dís?"

Bilbo glanced at his wife, startled slightly. She had been so quiet – so unnaturally quiet – that he had almost forgotten she was there. Her eyes were fixed on the ground beneath Bilbo's feet, and there was a look of immense concentration on her face.

"I," she said, raising her face and peering around at everyone. "I will…"

"You don't have to decide right now," insisted Bilbo, taking her hand. He could not deny that he was surprised, though. He had expected to fight with her over her going with him. "No one does. Lord Elrond is arranging another discussion for a fornight's time, when the scouts come back. There, we shall plan everything in great detail with the information we have."

"Two weeks?" cried Elza, glancing between Dwalin and Thorin as if waiting for one to protest. "Can we afford to delay so long? If the mountain is to be attacked…"

"We cannot afford not to," growled Thorin. "It is known that we are abroad, and no doubt guessed – or known – where we are. Until we have knowledge greater or equal to the enemy, it would be folly to set out now. There are more lives than our own at stake."

* * *

Kíli was not surprised that the youngest members of his family reacted to all the news with fury. He was angry too, of course, but not at Bilbo. It was not fair that their homes were both under threat, nor that he and his father were soon to trek to the most dangerous place in the world on a fool's errand.

It was not fair that he would be separated from his brother.

This was what Kíli struggled with the most, and as such he was staunchly ignoring it. He understood. He had understood even before Fíli tearfully explained it to him. Sacrifice. And, a part of Kíli was glad of it. If he fell, if Bilbo fell – if they failed – his heart would survive in Fíli, sheltered in the mountain. And _if_ they failed, Fíli would hold Erebor strong until hope had long withered and died, and the stubborn lives of the dwarves were finally quenched.

Of course, the rest of Kíli wanted to scream and cry, and pound his fists into the floor like a child. The thought of leaving Rivendell and never seeing his brother again was more painful than any battle wound or torture strike he had ever felt.

The thought of leaving the rest of his family behind was almost as hard.

So he understood their anger. He understood their grief. He understood why Frodo had cried out and forbidden Bilbo from leaving, why the youngest Baggins had turned to Dís for support. Kíli understood why all his mother could do was shake her head.

Nelly had argued against the logic of Bilbo going, with the help of her brother, cousins and Bróin for a solid half-hour, claiming that it would make more sense to send someone more agile and less important.

"We've trained in the mountain for years!" she had cried, gesturing at her siblings and cousins. "We are fighters, and sneaks, and strong, yet we are less valuable to the city or the Shire. If you and Kíli return to the mountain, safe, with the others, people will be heartened – you are the head of the hobbits in the mountain, official or not, and that's important. You need to be there. You're so much more important than we are, you must see it?"

And Kíli did see it, but that did not stop him from shutting her down. They were still children, really, even Frodo, and there was no way that _any_ of them would be allowed to go to Mordor. He told her so quite clearly, and she had glared at him with such venom he looked at the floor.

"We don't like it either." That was all that he could say.

After the longest two weeks of Kíli's life, the scouts returned, and their company was decided. 'The Fellowship of the Ring', that was what Elrond called it. He had suggested nine companions to counter the nine riders, and folk to represent every race.

Bilbo would be the ringbearer, and Kíli, Bragi and Nori would go with him. Between them, they would represent dwarves and hobbits. For the elves, Legolas and Glorfindel would go, and Aragorn and Boromir for the men.

"It may be that peril strikes my city, and I must turn from the path before the end," Boromir had said, earning a glare or seven from the various dwarves assembled. "But if I may, I will help you see this done."

For his part, Bilbo appreciated the sentiment.

The ninth member would be Gandalf, and that was what lightened Bilbo's heart the most. The old wizard looked so much stronger than he had when first they arrived at Rivendell, and he proposed setting out as early as seven days after the second council.

Those days were to be spent in long talks, and Kíli was dreading them. But when he arrived at breakfast bright and early before the first discussion, he saw a strange sight.

Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Nelly and Bróin were all standing on one edge of the halls, with sad, pleading expressions, and piles of packs behind them. On the other side of the hall, Pearl was glowering at them, her face red and her own arms crossed tightly.

Shaking weary heads at the six were Bilbo, Dís and Paladin. Dís was talking. "You shall have a chance to explore Rivendell when the companies depart – why do you want to go now?"

"What's happening?" Kíli asked, walking over with his brother at his side.

"We want to go camping," said Nelly, in an oddly soft voice. When she met Kíli's eyes the look broke his heart. "We don't want to be around for this. You're all to hole up for days and days talking about how you're leaving us for an awful quest, and there's nothing we can do. If we can't go with you, let us go to the Ice Glade. We'll return in time to see you off, I promise."

"I'm not sure," sighed Bilbo, rubbing his chin.

"What's the Ice Glade?" said Kíli, frowning.

"It's a little pool at Aragorn told us about," piped up Merry. "Right at the eastern end of the valley. Still within Rivendell, it's still safe."

"I can't be here," murmured Frodo, and Kíli stared at him. The young hobbit looked like the whole world was crashing down on his shoulders. "I cannot stay, watching you prepare to go where I can't follow. Let us do _something._ Busy ourselves. Please, Bilbo."

Dís sighed. "I think it's a good idea. Keep your minds busy – but not if you have any notion of leaving this valley, do you understand?"

Looking up with hopeful eyes, they all nodded eagerly, despite the lingering sorrow on their faces.

"I suppose I agree," Paladin ran a hand through his hair. "But your mother'll have something to say about it, and Esme and Bofur."

But no one had the heart to turn them down, and by lunch time they had disappeared with a map from Elladan and clear directions. It transpired that Pearl and Nelly had had a huge argument, resulting in the oldest Took daughter wanting nothing to do with the camping. Bofin and Vinca both wanted to be closer to the talks, being less prone to constant action than the others, and none of the littlest ones could get permission.

So Kíli stood on a little bridge with his brother, watching five hobbits and a dwarf hike off into Imladris' beautiful trees long after the others turned away.

"They'll be alright," Fíli said, wrapping his arm around Kíli's shoulders as they watched Pippin disappear, with one last look back. "They've got over worse than this."

"That supposed to comfort me, brother?" grinned Kíli, though he leant into Fíli's touch.

"I wish we were with them," murmured Fíli, his hand tightening over Kíli's shoulder. "Mahal, I wish we were."

"Me too," said Kíli, a lump building in his throat.

All of a sudden, Fíli twisted, seizing Kíli by the shoulders and staring at him with a wild fire in his eyes. "Listen to me now, Kíli, you come back. You go to that _damned_ mountain and you throw that _cursed_ thing into it, and then you come back home. Don't you _dare_ die on me, alright? Don't you dare."

Kíli gave a half-strangled laugh and let his head fall against his brother's. "I'll do my best."

Fíli's arms wrapped around him and he clung back like a child being carried over a storming river. "Don't you leave me," Fíli whispered. "Not forever."

"As long as you do the same," choked Kíli, closing his eyes and resting his chin on his brother's shoulder. "Never, ever do a Weathertop again."

Hidden behind a nearby pillar, Dís watched them with a heavy heart.

Then she turned away.

Her aching feet seemed to be trying to compete with the pain in her heart as they dragged her towards the room she shared with Bilbo. There was a horrid emptiness in her stomach, that would not disappear no matter how tightly she was held.

She wanted to protect her son and her husband on the path to Mordor. She wanted to protect her son and her brother on the path to Erebor. And she had been made to choose.

Bilbo wanted her to go back to the mountain – of course he did. Bilbo wanted everyone to be safe, but he saw his own safety as optional. And Fíli had been injured, recently, he was more vulnerable.

But Kíli was her baby, and she had already lost him once, and she always knew what was good for Bilbo better than the hobbit did himself. Yet she also had Frodo to think about – the boy clung to her like a mother, and she could not turn her back on him, either.

Her decision had been made, and as much as she had listened only to her own counsel, it felt as if she had no choice. Her arms wound tighter around her body, and she pushed open the bedroom door with her shoulder.

It was dark – the curtains were draped over the windows.

She was Dís, daughter of Una, and of Thráin, son of Thror. Daughter of sacrifice, granddaughter of suffering. Yet now more than ever she could not help but wonder if the blood that ran through her veins, the blood of Durin himself, was nothing more than a curse.

Her choice had been made by her circumstance – her duty to her people and to her family.

And she hated the world for making her choose. She loathed destiny for tearing her sons apart again, for tearing them from her. She despised fate for taking her first husband, and then dragging her second away. She even reviled her father, for teaching her that princesses could not be weak. For teaching her that princesses could not cry unless someone was dead or dying.

It was scarce five o'clock, but Dís changed into a nightgown and sat on the bed, raising her knees up to her chin like a child. She stared at a small crack on the wall, an imperfection that the elves had missed. Her eyes closed, but sleep would not come and rescue her.

Instead, thoughts of every tale of Mordor that she had ever heard swam before her eyes. She imagined her little Kíli and her Bilbo climbing over rocks as sharp as razors, and dodging fires that leapt from the ground. Horrors worse than orcs, worse than Black Riders…

Her stomach churned and she pulled herself in tighter.

 _Come now,_ she chided herself. _You are stronger than this. You cannot fail, you cannot crumble. You don't have that right. You have work to do._

The soft swish of the door opening brought her gaze up to fall on Bilbo. He was silhouetted in the doorway against the light from the hall, but she could just about see his shocked face, and see his eyes flick from her to the small chest by the bed.

"Dís?"

She closed her eyes again and sighed. "Come to check on your ring? I thought we said you wouldn't look at it while we're here, that you'd leave it alone?"

"We did," he said, sounding affronted. He walked into the room and closed the door behind him. "I came looking for you. You're missing dinner."

She gave a little laugh, but did not smile. "Hobbits and their meals."

"You've been missing more than usual, and eating less, lately," Bilbo pressed, sitting down in front of her. She still did not open her eyes, but she felt his weight by her feet. "Don't think I haven't noticed."

Dís sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I simply have much on my mind."

"Yes, but that's no reason to starve yourself…"

"I'm not." She could not help but smile wearily. "Trust a hobbit – I'm fine. Just not always in the mood for a meal."

She heard Bilbo's fingers tap softly against the bed, and she heard him take several intakes of breath as if he was about to speak. She counted five before any words actually emerged. "Amrâlimê…" Then he fell silent again. Khuzdul always sounded a little odd in the common tongue, but it was something that she found endearing. It had never failed to make her smile, to hear Bilbo call her his love. Never until today. Today it just squeezed vinegar into an open wound.

"I am simply tired," she said at last. "Tired, and weary of sacrificing. But I shall endure."

"I have no doubt you shall." Bilbo's voice was remarkably calm. "But you know that in the meantime it is alright to let down your burden?"

Dís opened her eyes and frowned. "Not all burdens can rest."

"But all hearts can," protested Bilbo, taking her hands. He started. "You're so cold…"

She shrugged, but her fingers wrapped around Bilbo's much warmer ones.

"Dís," he murmured, tears sparkling over his deep eyes. "I think you need to cry."

As if the suggestion had set them free, tears sprang to Dís' own eyes, and made it past her eyelashes. She closed her eyes and felt herself shake, but then she felt Bilbo's arms wrap around her, and her shakes grew to sobs. She clung to the hobbit that she loved so much, and she cried.

And as her hands wound into his hair, she knew that no number of tears would wash away her heart's stuttering belief that one of them would not be coming home.

 **Well, I hope you enjoyed that! Soon we'll be getting back to the action, and I can't wait! I hope you're as excited as I am, please do let me know if that's the case. I love hearing from you!**

 **I hope you all have a lovely day, thanks for reading :D**


	15. Chapter 15: The Ice Pool

**Thank you to those lovely reviewers, I hope this chapter is up to your expectations!**

 **As ever, please forgive any mistakes.**

 **Read, enjoy, review.**

 **Chapter Fifteen # The Ice Pool #**

Sighing heavily, Gimli shuffled out of Rivendell's airy council room and wished that he would never have to enter it again. For the third day in a row, he had entered at dawn, felt rather useless amongst doom-laden discussions, and left only when dusk was falling. He was starting to wish that he had gone with Bróin and Frodo and the others. After all, Gimli would not be walking to Mordor – his offer to protect Bilbo had been gently rebuked, so he would be returning to Erebor instead.

To protect his king. And maybe to fight in a war. Gimli was not afraid of battle – in fact, cutting some orc throats would make him feel much better.

But Gimli was terrified of arriving too late. Here he had listened and learnt, but been about as useful as a hair curler to a hobbit. His dreams were plagued by equal helplessness on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain, of returning to Erebor and finding that some evil with the power of Smaug had broken in and decimated his home.

Every night, the fireplace stole his gaze, and his mind wandered far to the east. It wondered what would happen if they arrived at a mountain already besieged. How could they help that, in a party as small as theirs? What if Two did not make provisions correctly, and their people began to starve?

There were so many 'if's, and none that he could change, and Gimli was tired of it.

All around him, people were moving in different directions – most towards the hall where Elrond had promised them supper. But when Gimli paused by a nearby balcony, Aragorn, Boromir and Legolas lingered too.

"Are you alright?" asked Aragorn, staring down at him with raised eyebrows. "You seem rather downhearted."

"And you seem rather chipper," Gimli replied, "given that we just spent two hours discussing what to do in the event that the entire fellowship is slaughtered."

Boromir clamped his hand down hard on Gimli's shoulder. "What we need is ale, I think. Fortify the blood after such talk."

Gimli grinned. "Aye, I like the way you're thinking, laddie."

"Ale is not a popular beverage among the elves," said Aragorn lightly, and Gimli sighed.

"I know. I've missed it sorely ever since leaving the Shire. Bilbo has a barrel of Barliman's Best tucked away in the cellar."

Aragorn's eyes raised higher, but now he looked impressed. "Does he indeed? That is a good brew, to be sure. I did not know that Barliman Butterbur sold by the barrel?"

"He doesn't," said Gimli, rather smugly. "But Bilbo always tells such good stories and brings such company to the Prancing Pony that he often makes an exception."

"But alas, it does not help us here," sighed Boromir, a twinkle in his eye. Still, there were more lines than usual on his forehead, and his eyes were shadowed by dark rings. It was then that Gimli noticed the tight edge in Aragorn's smile, and the utter stillness of Legolas, as he stared into the distance.

Although, noted Gimli, that could just be an elf thing.

"I can help us here," said Aragorn. He gave a wry smile and began to walk in the opposite direction from the crowd. "I know where Lord Elrond keeps what ale he has – I doubt he will begrudge us a mug or two."

Just a few minutes later, Gimli was much more content. He had a mug of ale in each hand – not as good a brew as could be found in the Shire or the Lonely Mountain, but a decent one nevertheless – and he was sitting on a plain, stone balcony that overlooked the eastern side of the valley. Though winter was drawing ever nearer, it was pleasantly warm, and the company was fairly good.

For almost an hour, Gimli shared stories of easier times and adventures past with Aragorn and Boromir, and the ale drew a little of his worry from his heart.

But Legolas had hardly moved. Though he had accompanied them, he denied any drink, and had been staring with slightly narrowed eyes at a single spot for over an hour. Finally, Gimli had had enough.

"Say, Legolas," he said, finally drawing the elf's gaze from the horizon. "What're you looking at? You've not moved for an hour."

"What I cannot see," said Legolas, a brief smile twitching across his face at Gimli's look of confusion. "It may well be nothing."

"Yet you do not think it so," frowned Aragorn, standing up from where he had slouched against the balcony. Boromir's eyes sharpened, and focused on the elf. None had yet drunk enough to lose their judgement.

"Three nights ago, I saw smoke rising from a glade in the eastern valley, from the cooking fire of the young hobbits, I guessed. I caught glimpse of it the following morning, yet I could see nothing that evening, nor the next day – today. There is no sign of a fire, or smoke, and perhaps it may be only the foreshadowing of fear from the dangers we will face, but there is a shadow growing over my heart."

"You think they're in trouble?" said Gimli, standing up himself. He had no time for pretty words now, not if the young ones were in danger. Why, they were little more than children…

"I do not know," said Legolas. "It could be that now they cook beneath the trees, or chose not to light a fire at all. And evil cannot yet penetrate this valley."

"They are not fools," added Aragorn. "There is no reason for them not to be safe."

Gimli sighed, and stared off to where the trees were blurring into the dark.

"I'm sure they're fine," Boromir said, a grin on his face. "Think about how angry they'd be if you showed up to check on them."

Gimli snorted. "It'd be worth the trip to annoy them so much."

After a pause, Aragorn spoke. "Then let's take it." The other three stared at him, and Aragorn shrugged. "It takes but a few hours riding to reach the Ice Pool, if we set a good pace. We could be back by dawn, scare some hobbits, put Gimli's worry to rest and have something light to think of during tomorrow's meeting."

"You know," said Boromir slowly, stroking his chin, "we may even be able to miss the council tomorrow. They are to discuss the provisions, and I believe that the hands of hobbits and elves are more than capable of such talk. They know what we need, after all."

"That is a fine point." Aragorn nodded.

"I'm in," grinned Gimli. The night was getting better and better, and he no longer felt tired in the slightest. He would get to surprise, scare, and/or mock his young cousins, and he would not have to attend another useless meeting.

Legolas, the prissy rule-stickler he was, insisted on talking to Elrond of their plan, but both elven lord and dwarven king thought it a good idea. In fact, Thorin gave Gimli a weary smile.

"Keeping faith and moral is as important as keeping arms at this time," he said.

The statement was kind and thoughtful, especially coming from Thorin, but something about it made Gimli feel a little uneasy. He was careful to ensure that he had all three of his best axes were stowed on his person. One was the walking axe that his father had given him, and the other two were smaller, and tucked easily into his belt.

To his relief, Boromir, Aragorn and Legolas were all also armed when they met at the stables. No one spoke of it, but with the great shadow hanging over their heads it felt ill advised to travel without them. They took only light packs, with provisions for two days just in case, thick cloaks for the cold night, and some various other bits and pieces. They would be back by the next night at the latest, after all.

All the wolves had gone with the tweens, save Luno, who was really just Kíli's glorified lap dog. Still, Gimli was happy to be reunited with his trusty little pony, Odo. The poor creature seemed a little disgruntled about setting out as night fell, but when the horses of Aragorn, Legolas and Boromir led out of the stables without complaint, Odo stomped his pride and carried Bilbo into the night with his head in the air.

It was cooler now, and the wind was crisp on his face as they rode, but Gimli liked it. It felt refreshing, and so good to be doing _something,_ even if it was unproductive.

They set an easy pace, laughing and chatting as they followed a small trail that Aragorn and his horse picked out through the trees. As the night grew deeper, they rode faster and talked less, but the silence that fell was comfortable.

It felt safe here, to ride beneath a canopy of leaves, littered with stars. Gimli may not fully trust any elf, but he trusted Bilbo, and Bilbo trusted that Elrond could protect his valley. Even as he rode, his fears for his cousins seemed folly.

It was gone midnight when Aragorn checked his horse in a little hollow, and they all dismounted. Quietly, they crept through an overgrown path on foot, leaving their steeds to graze. Gimli felt his heart beating faster and faster in his chest, but when they sprang out into a clearing, he did not see what he expected to.

There was a pond – the Ice Pool did imply something of the sort, and now he could see how it got its name. The rock beneath the water was white, giving the little lake a silver sheen, and it glittered like ice in the starlight. The grass around it was lush and soft, even against the onset of winter, and the trees formed smooth, pale pillars. It was a peaceful place, a wonderful place to stargaze and contemplate life. That he had been expecting.

He was also expecting the nearby remains of a fire, but not for the coals to be cold.

He was not expecting it to be the only sign of a camp.

"Frodo?" he called loudly. "Sam?" If the tables had been turned, and Gimli was now on the receiving end of a practical joke, those would be the two to put him out of his misery the fastest.

The soft hoot of an owl was the only reply, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Aragorn stooped to the ground by the fire, a frown on his face.

"This has not been lit in days," he murmured, his eyes scouring the ground. "And what tracks are here are just as old – they could have stayed here no longer than a night…"

"Then where are they?" demanded Gimli, squinting into the dark trees and seeing no sign of his cousins.

"Not far, surely," said Boromir, though his face was falling into a frown. "Perhaps they are simply exploring?"

Gimli weighed this in his mind, and then gave a heavy sigh. "I suppose… It wouldn't be unlike them."

But Legolas' eyes were fixed on the trees at the eastern side of the glade, and he walked into them without a word. He returned a few moments later, a piece of ripped, white fabric in his hand. It was smeared with blood.

Gimli's heart dropped through his boots, even as it began pumping adrenalin through his system. This could not be…

"This belongs to Pippin," said Aragorn, his voice tightening as he took the fabric in his hand. "I recognise the pattern on the seam, he showed me the other day…"

Taking a deep breath, Gimli gave a sharp bark in Khuzdul, and immediately Odo jostled his way through the trees. The pony looked highly disgruntled, but did not protest when Gimli mounted and urged him towards the trees.

"What are you doing?" cried Boromir.

Gimli set his jaw and did not look back. "Finding my cousins. Might be nothing, or they might be hurt. And don't even think of trying to stop me-"

"Gimli," said Aragorn firmly, "it is too dark to track them now. Let's go at first light, I'll be able to search more clearly then."

"And dawn is but a few hours away," added Boromir. He was staring up at the sky. "We should not lose much time."

"We?" Gimli blinked, startled.

"Well, we aren't going to let you go alone," laughed Boromir, shaking his head with a devilish grin. "Come now, Gimli, we're neither faithless nor cowards. We should go with you now if the need seemed more pressing, but chances are Pippin fell into a tree and ripped his shirt. You can't tell me that's out of character?"

Gimli mulled this over for a moment, and then shrugged. "I suppose not."

"Then let's get some sleep," said Aragorn, in a calm yet firm voice – much like the one Bilbo would use, Gimli noted.

"Not much," the dwarf said as he jumped down from his pony and scratched Odo's nose. "We must be away ere daybreak."

And sure enough, daybreak woke them, pouring light onto Gimli's sleeping face and jolting him into action. His fears seemed less pressing in the light. Aragorn and Boromir were right. Knowing his cousins, they were simply exploring, and making a general nuisance of themselves, the scoundrels.

Nevertheless, the four companions followed the trail of wolf prints, talking and laughing amongst themselves, until several hours had passed. It was odd – they were travelling east in as straight a line as they could make, and as time went on they seemed no closer to reaching their friends. The tracks were old, days old, and by noon the hunters were cantering, urging their steeds to reach the fastest sustainable pace.

The trees before them thinned and thinned, until Aragorn led them through a ford in the river with a soft moan, and halted on the other side. His eyes were narrow with worry and confusion, and staring at the horizon. Legolas was shading his eyes, and Boromir's jaw was tight.

Gimli's heart was pounding in his chest, as Odo carried him across the eastern border of Rivendell. "They're, they're gone."

"Where?" breathed Aragorn, his brow creased.

Boromir shook his head. "Why?"

Legolas was the one to wield the word that chilled Gimli's blood. "Orcs."

"Orcs!" he cried, wheeling around. "What the blazes do you mean orcs, they were supposed to be safe!"

"Orcs," Legolas repeated, pointing at an oddly shaped rock in the distance. "There are two orc corpses yonder, and tracks all around here. Trying to enter Rivendell, no doubt, though I cannot understand how they could breach the defences-"

"Did they take them?" Gimli rounded on Aragorn, desperate for the ranger's reading of the dirt, and terrified of it in equal measure. "Did orcs take my cousins?"

An image from long ago flashed before his eyes – little Pippin, held by the neck by an orc. Not again, that could not happen again.

Aragorn shook his head slowly. "So far, I have caught no sign of orcs, yet I see the tracks here. I cannot tell how old they are, they are layered and confused."

Gimli took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and growled. "Right. Right." Then he flicked the reins, and set Odo on a brisk trot.

"Gimli-" began Boromir, but the dwarf was having none of it.

"I'm going to find those damn rascals, and skin any orc or man or elf that might've hurt them. And, if it turns out the idiots left of their own volition, I'll skin them."

"Not literally, I hope," muttered Boromir. "And I was hoping for another ale tonight. But let's go. The sooner we find them the better."

"Someone should go back," said Legolas, "send a message."

Aragorn pursed his lips. "They cannot be far. I suggest we ride hard now, and if we have found nothing by dusk, someone ought to return. But still this may be more innocent than it seems, and the council have more pressing matters than six wayward children. That is not an insult, Gimli."

"I know." The dwarf grinned darkly. "Let's hunt some dwobbits."

* * *

When Bilbo retired from the fourth day of talks, he had to admit that his concern was growing. He had expected that Gimli would have returned by now, with Aragorn, Legolas, and Boromir in tow. But they had not arrived, even for dinner.

Too tired even for the Hall of Fire, Bilbo and Dís made their way to their room, and went to bed. But try as he might, Bilbo could not sleep. He tossed and turned and sighed and snarled, until finally he sat up in bed. At this rate, he would wake Dís.

A sudden thought came to his mind, and he paused. It would not hurt, to have a little peek at his pre- his ring. Just for a minute. After all, he had to build up his strength, and what better way than practise?

He slid out of bed and grappled for the large chest beneath the bed, but as his hands touched the top, they fell on paper. Frowning, he pulled out a folded piece of parchment with Frodo's writing on. Then, he smiled.

Frodo had a habit of writing happy poems, messages or inspirational sayings on bits of scrap paper, and leaving them around the places for people to find. So far, Bilbo's favourite had been the 'always keep smiling' that had been left in the bucket that was tucked in his back cupboard in Erebor, and reserved for vomiting children.

But this one took the cake, though Frodo surely could not have known it would. A lullaby for a sleepless night. Bilbo read the simple verse over and over, and then smiled, and got back into bed. He tucked the paper beneath his pillow, wrapped his arms around his wife and closed his eyes.

And had the best night of sleep he would have for months.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter, though it's a bit short and sweet for my standards. Do let me know, I'd love to know your theories, your suspicions, your hopes, anything you dread? If you have the time and inclination to review, please do, I appreciate it so much, and get so excited every time I get one :D**

 **As a note, I don't know when the next update will be. I hope soon, but I have a lot to do at the moment. Thanks for your patience.**

 **Thank you for reading, I hope you have a good day.**


	16. Chapter 16: A Conspiracy Unmasked

**Hello! Another update so soon, which is exciting! I can't promise they'll continue to be this regular, but I've been strangely fortunate in my timekeeping these past few days. I'll do my best!**

 **Thanks for the lovely reviews for the last chapter, and as ever do forgive my foolish typos.**

 **Read, enjoy, review :D**

 **Chapter Sixteen # A Conspiracy Unmasked #**

 _Humming softly, Bilbo rocked his little nephew back and forth on his hip. It was rather typical that Frodo would fall prey to a cold when the weather was turning towards spring. The boy had adapted incredibly well to life in Erebor – in fact he seemed to feel safer than he had in the Shire – but ever since the coughing started he had whined for home, and for his mama._

 _Bilbo was not truly worried about Frodo's health. Hobbits were resilient, yes, and rarely fell victim to serious diseases, but little ones caught colds all the time. Why, Bilbo himself had caught a cold in Lake-Town. And this was, after all, nothing more than a cold. The symptoms were mild enough to put Bilbo's heart at ease._

 _"Uncle Bilbo," Frodo whimpered. "Uncle Bilbo, it burns!"_

 _"Burns?" Bilbo blinked and looked down. His heart seized and he cried out._

 _A red ring was burnt into Frodo's little palm, and smoke was rising from the blistering wound. This was not a cold, it could not be –_

 _Before Bilbo could scream for Óin, Frodo let out a scream of his own, and there was fire reflected in his eyes and bursting from his hand and –_

Bilbo flew upright, choking on the gasp and scream that had collided in his throat. His sweaty hands gripped the sheets and for a moment he did not know where he was.

Frodo, he had to get to –

"Bilbo? Bilbo, what's wrong?"

A shuddering breath of relief drew into his lungs, and Bilbo dropped his head. No, Frodo was safe, and he was not a child anymore.

"Bilbo?" Dís asked again, less groggily, and with more concern.

"I'm alright," he groaned, running his hands over his eyes. "I'm fine. Just a nightmare."

"Again?" Dís reached out and took his hand. "What happened?"

Bilbo sighed. "I'd rather not talk about it. It's still dark, look, let's just get back to sleep."

"Alright." His wife smiled sadly, and he laid back down beside her. Her arms wove around him, and he slowly slipped back into sleep.

When he woke again, the memory of his nightmare was strong, but he pushed it to the back of his mind. Dís did not bring it up either, for which he was grateful. Frodo was fine, and Gimli would be back by now to tell him so, and to mock Bilbo for being a foolish old worrywart.

He did not allow worry to seep in when he could not find Gimli at the breakfast table. Instead, he sat down opposite his sons and began to fill his stomach before he even thought to talk.

"So," he said eventually, tucking into his bacon and eggs with great gusto. "Have Gimli and Aragorn not returned yet? I thought they'd be back by last night?"

Across the table, Fíli and Kíli both shrugged. They moved as one, their shoulders touching, and though they looked perfectly content, a little pain tweaked at Bilbo's heart. The thought of one without the other had not got any easier over the last few weeks.

"I expect they'll be back soon," said Glorfindel, who had joined them for breakfast this morning. "After all, Aragorn will hardly get lost."

"Unless the young'uns have gone wandering," laughed Fíli. "Which is more than likely if you ask me."

"Aye, but Aragorn will find them," replied Kíli sagely, nodding with a grin of his own.

Fíli laughed again. "I don't doubt it, even if they've run off to fight Mordor themselves!"

Kíli snorted his apple juice all over the table, but Bilbo did not scold him. He did not even hear Ellie doing his job for him, or see Esme swat Kíli on the back of his head.

A sudden, horrible thought had knocked the puzzle pieces into place, the note, the nightmare, the nagging dread, and Bilbo could not breathe.

"Bilbo?" asked Kíli, his voice floating from miles away. "What's wrong?"

 _I'm wrong,_ Bilbo thought desperately, _oh by the Valar, oh let me be wrong, please, please,_ please!

He stood up quickly and stumbled back away from the table, feeling the blood leave his face to race to his legs, and he ran. Vaguely he heard shouts, and footsteps behind him, but it did not matter.

He had to be wrong, he had to prove himself wrong.

Feet smashing into the floor harder and faster than they had in years, Bilbo tore through Rivendell until he reached his room. Crashing through the door he fell to his knees and scrambled under the bed.

"Bilbo?" cried Kíli. If he had not sounded so alarmed, Bilbo doubted he would have heard his son at all, but there was not any time. He reached for the wooden box and pulled it towards him.

He prayed, with all his strength.

Closed his eyes.

Opened the box.

Then he opened his eyes, and groaned. Even as his body went cold, his fingers fumbled in the box, ripping apart the little bags and searching its nooks and crannies for what he knew would not be there. And then he felt paper.

It took him five agonising seconds to open the folds, and when he did, he saw his own verse in Frodo's hand, and his world collapsed.

Some wretched mix of a sob and a cry broke from Bilbo's lips, and he covered his face with his hands, feeling the paper wrinkle against his skin.

"Bilbo, what's going _on?"_ cried Kíli, who had appeared from nowhere by his side, and was now shaking the hobbit's shoulder.

Wordlessly, Bilbo handed Kíli the letter, and then slumped against his son's side. It felt like all his strength had been stolen.

Sounding rather confused, Kíli read the note aloud. The altered answer to the verse that Bilbo had found the night before.

 _"'Dear Bilbo,' said he,_

 _'I am sorry but I know that I must go._

 _I love you more than my own life;_

 _I'll do what must be done._

 _My strength is tenfold next to yours,_

 _My senses sharper and mind less spent._

 _If I must my life I'll give to_

 _Keep my family safe.'_ But, but that's just the 'Old Man' lullaby, with a couple of twisted lyrics… What does it mean? Bilbo?" In the voice of a frightened child, Kíli begged, "Bilbo, what's going _on,_ what's happening?"

"Oh, Mahal," Dís whispered, and Bilbo knew from her tone she had worked it out. Surely nothing else could make her sound so broken, so shocked.

"It's Frodo," Bilbo whimpered, his hand still covering his eyes. "Stupid, _stupid!"_

"What's Frodo?" pressed Kíli, pulling Bilbo's hands away. The hobbit stared at Kíli's wide, frightened eyes, and his stomach churned. "I don't understand, is he in trouble?"

"He's taken it," whispered Bilbo. His head was beginning to spin. "He's, he's taken the ring."

Across the room, there was a thud, and he looked up in shock and fear. Dís' knees had given out, and Fíli's attempt to catch her had ended with them both on the floor. But neither moved. The just stared at Bilbo with pale faces and horror-struck eyes.

 _This is all your fault,_ Bilbo thought, and he clamped his hand over his mouth. _If you had thought less of yourself, if you had just worn the damn thing on its chain this never could have happened…_

"Why would he do that?" Kíli shook his head, a little too quickly. "Why would he, why would he do that, Bilbo?"

"You know the lullaby," Dís said bitterly. Her hand was clenched on Fíli's shoulder in a grip that must have been painful. The young prince shifted out from under it, instead moving to wrap his arms around his mother altogether. This seemed to give the princess the strength to finish her point. "You know how it goes – the daughter takes her father's place. Takes his burden, to protect him."

"No." Kíli shook his head again, but the hand on Bilbo's shoulder was trembling. "No, he wouldn't, because, because he wouldn't take anyone else with him! Frodo wouldn't take anyone else into danger, he _couldn't,_ it goes against his nature."

"But they would not let him go alone." Fíli's voice came as a mournful chant. "And you heard Nelly's logic. It was hard for even us to argue with."

Whether from shock or tears, Bilbo's vision was beginning to blur. It did not feel as though the air he dragged in with each hitched breath reached anywhere near his lungs. His hand found Kíli's wrist, and he squeezed it like a life line.

This must be what it felt like to drown.

 _Like Drogo and Primula,_ thought Bilbo, with a more desperate gasp. He was not there to save his young cousins, but they had died for bearing his name, and now he would be the death of their son.

He would be the death of his little Frodo.

"No…" Kíli's voice cracked. "No? Bilbo?" No one answered him. All that Bilbo could hear was Dís hitched breathing. Then, Kíli wrapped his arm around Bilbo and said, "What are we going to do then?"

"Follow them," said Fíli, almost before his brother had finished speaking. His voice was shaking, but there was a ferocity in it that brought Bilbo's gaze up. Fíli's eyes were blazing, and he looked positively lethal, but still his arms were wrapped around his mother. "We will follow them, and we will damn well bring them home."

Bilbo's eyes flickered to a shape behind Fíli. A figure had entered the end of the hall, and stopped dead at the sight of the family on the floor. And then, Thorin ran towards them so fast Bilbo actually jumped.

"What's happened?" the king demanded, his eyes wild and his voice tight as he crouched down beside his sister. One of his hands rested on Fíli's shoulder, and the other grabbed one of Dís' hands. "What's wrong?"

"Frodo and the others have taken the ring," said Fíli tightly, and the colour drained from Thorin's face faster than water through open fingers. "And they're trying to destroy it themselves."

"What?" Thorin looked from Bilbo to Dís, then at the box in Bilbo's hands. "No, that cannot be…"

"It is," moaned Bilbo, closing his eyes and feeling Kíli hold him tighter. "It is."

"Right," the king growled, standing up. "Right, we'll see about that."

Immediately, Kíli loosened his grip on Bilbo to look up. "Where're you going?"

"To tell Gandalf-"

"No!" cried Kíli, leaping to his feet. "No, what if, what if the council take it poorly, what if they deem them thieves, or _enemies_? They'll hunt them down, they'll kill them!"

Bilbo groaned, but Thorin shook his head, striding across the room to clasp Kíli's shoulders. "They will not. I know this. For we would never, _ever_ let that happen. But moreover, despite any flaw he may have, you cannot doubt that Gandalf cares for those children. And as loath as I am to admit it, you have _always_ been right about the elves of Rivendell. Your faith has brought us hope in many a storm, Kíli. Don't lose it now, lad."

Kíli swallowed, then nodded and bowed his head slightly. Thorin pressed his forehead against Kíli's, squeezed Bilbo's shoulder, and then stood back.

"I will alert the council, have it start as soon as may be. Take a minute, compose yourselves, and join us when you can."

Dís and Bilbo nodded mutely, and Thorin made for the door. Then, he paused, and turned around.

"Fíli, Kíli, don't you dare go off on a mission of your own to bring them back. I forbid it, at least until we hear what the council has to say."

"Understood," Fíli murmured.

As Thorin closed the door behind him, the only words the hobbit had left broke from Bilbo in a sob. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so, sorry."

* * *

"We've got company!" Nelly declared, jumping down over the rock that sheltered their little camp. By making as straight a line east as they could, the Conspiracy, as they had dubbed themselves, had quickly crossed the plains and made their way into the trees that grew near the base of the Misty Mountains. Now they were heading south, as straight and fast as they could.

Initially, Bróin had suggested taking the High Pass as the company had all those years ago, but with the news of sprawling goblin numbers, no one wanted to risk it. Also, as Frodo pointed out, they would emerge too close to the land of the Beornings to be safe. Pippin spouted off something about it being the most obvious choice and therefore the one they should not take, but Nelly was not convinced of that. Not in this case, anyway. Nori, for one, would likely guess their logic.

A little guilt tugged at her heart at the thought of her friend, but she shook it off and addressed the serious facing now staring at her.

"Friend, foe or stranger?" asked Bróin quickly, already drawing his sword.

"Friend," said Nelly, and everyone groaned.

"Who?" Merry winced.

"Gimli, Aragorn, Boromir and Legolas," she replied grimly, looking around. "They'll be on us in five minutes, at the most, and I don't doubt Legolas saw me."

Bróin swore loudly, and Pippin stared at her incredulously. "You were seen? I thought you said you were sneaky."

Nelly's nostrils flared. "So help me, Pippin, I will _tie_ you up and leave you here, you-"

"Not helping," Bróin interrupted, grabbing his bags off the floor. "We've got to hide."

"You think we can?" Frodo said, even as he gathered his own belongings in two swipes.

Nelly paused, glancing over her shoulder. "I doubt it, Aragorn's a tracker, isn't he? We don't have time to lay a false trail or anything."

"Well, that settles it," said Pippin, sitting back down on his blankets and pulling out an apple from his pack. "We'll just say we're lost."

Nelly snarled. Why the others had agreed to letting Pippin come, she would never know. She loved her brother, fiercely and deeply, but that was why he should have stayed. He was too young for this, too naïve, and at times like this it got on her nerves. "Yes, Pippin, let's do that. I see _no_ way that could _ever_ backfire, oh no."

"Stop panicking," Frodo said, his fists clenching and unclenching. "Pack up, get ready to run if we have to. If we can't talk our way out of this, we go, alright? The wolves can run longer than even elvish horses."

Without any words, the entire group raced around, grabbing what little they had unpacked, whistling to their wolves and finally mounting. Then they waited, in a straight line, until three horses and a pony came into view, and the sound of hooves was drowned out by Gimli's yells.

"You damn hooligans! What do you think you're doing?"

Sam and Frodo winced slightly, but Nelly raised her head. "What're _you_ doing? I thought you were in important meetings?"

Gimli went bright red, and Aragorn and Boromir exchanged a look.

"We were, until we realised that you'd buggered off!" Gimli growled. "What the devil do you think you're doing?"

"What do _you_ think we're doing?" asked Bróin, raising his eyebrows.

"As amusing as this is," drawled Boromir, "we have just travelled at full haste from Rivendell, thinking you'd been abducted by orcs or some other devilry, and an explanation would be nice."

"Well, that was a rather stupid thing to do, wasn't it? How would orcs have taken us from Rivendell, really? It's not our fault you don't believe we can take care of ourselves," said Nelly, her words far more flippant than she felt.

"Not that we don't appreciate it," added Merry quickly, when their pursuers' faces grew stony. "Just, it wasn't necessary. We're fine, just exploring."

"Exploring where?" pressed Gimli.

Bróin laughed. "If we knew where, it wouldn't be exploring, would it?"

"You do yourself a disservice," said Aragorn, his voice oddly quiet. It gave Nelly the awful, creeping feeling that they might be about to be caught. "You are too intelligent to go 'exploring' at a time like this, and not nearly selfish enough. So what are you doing? You have a plan of some sort, I see. What is it?"

Nelly glanced at Bróin, and took a deep breath. Then she smiled slightly. "A decent plan, as far as we can make it. We will be fine, but you have your own quest to take. You ought to get back to Rivendell, or you'll miss it."

"Not a chance," said Gimli, though his eyes gave away the smile playing underneath his beard. "Your parents would skin us alive."

A prickly silence fell between them. The wolves jostled as if ready to run, and the horses stomped the floor, and even the wind seemed to fall still. A standoff had begun, and neither side would budge. Nelly took a deep breath. They had to do this. They had to succeed. If they failed…

Finally, Aragorn spoke. "Come. We will go back to Rivendell, and you can pitch your mission to your elders. If they give you permission, they will likely give you greater provisions as well."

"Not happening," said Nelly sharply, even as they all began to back away. "You can try and take us, but we'll scatter, you can't take us all."

Gimli's eyes narrowed and he urged his pony forward. "Just try us."

"You don't know what you're doing," Pippin piped up, and Nelly's heart sank. "You've got to let us go, it's important, not just for us."

"Important? And what do you think you could do that your elders cannot?" said Aragorn, but Gimli's eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He stared at Pippin as though he had been struck dumb, and the colour seeped from his face.

"Oh, Mahal, tell me you didn't…" Something in Gimli's voice stole Nelly's breath for a moment. The anger and frustration was all gone, and in its place was disbelief – and fear. "Tell me you didn't do it."

"Didn't do what?" Nelly said, holding her head up high despite her shaking hands. Her mouth felt very dry.

"Didn't do what?" Boromir repeated when no one spoke, staring at Gimli.

"We talked about it," said Gimli, and Nelly's stomach curled. His voice was cracked with heartbreak, and his face looked as though they had stabbed him in the heart. "But I didn't think you were serious, I didn't think you'd be so _stupid,_ so _selfish._ I didn't think you'd betray us like that."

It felt as though Nelly had been punched in the stomach.

 _Stick to your gut, kid,_ came a voice much like Nori's. Her guilt grew, but her resolve tightened.

"We're not being selfish!" argued Sam, though he looked on the verge of tears himself. "And we haven't betrayed anyone. We have to do this. It's the only way that makes sense."

With a soft gasp, Aragorn swore in elvish. "They took the ring."

"They what?" cried Boromir, staring from Aragorn to the Conspiracy with wide eyes. "No?"

"Get ready," Nelly murmured to Frodo, out of the corner of her mouth. He nodded, his lips pursed so tightly that the skin around them was white.

"Why?" demanded Gimli. "Why?"

"We told you," Bróin replied. "A thousand times, we told you. Erebor needs its politicians, its diplomats, its leaders. So do Gondor, and the Rangers. And _this_ task requires stealth, courage and friendship over strength in arms, Gandalf said so. We have that, and we're damn good with weapons as well. Bilbo cannot take the ring, Kíli cannot go to Mordor, and there's no way that Nori should be away from the mountain at its most vulnerable. Thorin and Fíli need all the help they can get getting home, and to get to Mordor you need to be sneaky."

"Which you have proven to be," sniffed Gimli, but there was something else in his eyes. A spark of what looked eerily close to agreement.

Nelly fought the urge to hang her head, an urge which all the other hobbits surrendered to.

"Your intentions are noble, and your hearts true," said Aragorn, a look of deep sorrow on his face. "But this is a task too big for you, my friends. Bilbo was chosen for a reason –"

"Bilbo cannot take the ring," Frodo snapped, his eyes flashing. "Not now."

"Why?" frowned Boromir, urging his own horse a few steps forward. "Why not Bilbo?"

"He has to stay," Frodo said, and to Nelly's surprise his voice was shaking. He _had_ been adamant about this during their talks, but he had always been composed before, and spoken of the political need for Bilbo to return to Erebor. But Nelly knew her cousin, and she knew that the pain of a secret was what drove tears from his eyes. Her stomach curled up tighter.

"I know you care for him," interjected Legolas, "but now is not the time to protect one at the expense of others."

"That's not what-"

"Then what?" pressed Boromir, and Nelly saw Frodo's composure crack further.

Aragorn spoke before Frodo could. "Your uncle is strong, Frodo, if anyone is capable of such a task-"

Frodo's fingers tightened around his wolf's fur. "I know-"

"Come back-"

"Bilbo should-"

"You can't-"

"Selfish fools-"

"He _can't!"_ Frodo yelled, so loud that even Nelly jumped. Every voice was silenced but Frodo's, which broke free with a pained cry. "He cannot leave her, not now! It would kill her."

"What?" Gimli stammered, as even the conspiracy stared at Frodo in confusion.

Frodo hung his head. "Auntie Dís – she's, she's pregnant."

Nelly closed her eyes and pressed a hand against her mouth, and she heard Merry and Sam gasp. She heard Pippin moan, and Bróin swear softly under his breath. Sorrow flooded her head to toe as she understood just why Frodo had been so insistent.

"No," Gimli murmured, his voice wavering. "She, is she?"

"I don't understand," said Boromir, in a somewhat hesitant voice. "I would point out that many leave for war or peril while their wives are with child, but I sense that you already know that?"

Nelly swallowed, and turned to her cousin. "Frodo, is she really?"

He nodded, his lower lip quavering.

"Oh, Mahal," she whispered, taking a deep breath. Then, she turned to Boromir. "Four, four babies, Dís has lost since she wed Bilbo. We, we don't know if it's even possible a child could survive…"

"Bilbo doesn't know," Frodo said, his large eyes fixed on the ground before Boromir's pony. "I found out only by accident, and guesswork. I, I swore not to tell. She thinks it is only a matter of time before, well…" Frodo hung his head, closed his eyes and continued. "She needs Bilbo. She could not join the fellowship because she was afraid of miscarrying on the road and bringing greater danger to the company. That's all she ever thinks about, other people. What they need, how to keep them safe. But she needs Bilbo now, he cannot go to Mordor. If, if he went, if he was not there when – they'd be crushed."

"Well," Gimli said gruffly, "that explains it. And settles it. I'm coming with you."

Nelly gasped, and stared at her older 'cousin' in shock. " _What_?"

"Uh, yes, _what?"_ repeated Aragorn, staring at the dwarf.

"You make good points, and the last best of all. Not for you, perhaps," Gimli nodded at the Big Folk by his side. "Politics over people, and that. I understand. But this is my family, and these young idiots made the right choice. I'm coming with you."

"No," said Legolas sharply. "There is no wisdom in this-"

"There is much wisdom in this," retorted Gimli, "And not simply for the sake of Dís. You do not like it because it was not the will of the council, but the council would not listen to _them_. Like it or not, _children_ or not, I've seen them fighting, and hiking, and sneaking – I know what they are capable of. And, I think they can do this."

Legolas pursed his lips, but did not reply.

Aragorn's lips were white, and he stared at Frodo. Then, finally, he spoke. "I understand what you have said, what Gimli has said. It is not how I would have it, but it is not my choice. I will help you, if I can. You have my sword."

Nelly's heart skipped several beats – this could not be happening. She had not expected the news about Dís, but she had expected support even less.

"People over politics," Boromir mused. Nelly wondered if he knew he was talking aloud. "My father would advise against it, and strongly. Were he here, he would advise us back to Rivendell." The man stared at Frodo for a long moment. "My father is a wise man. But politics would not stop me from keeping my brother from this journey, nor will it force me to stop yours. If this is indeed the path you will take, Gondor will see it done. I am with you."

Gimli turned to Legolas. "So? Will you stop us?"

The elf stared back towards Rivendell, then at those on wolves. "I do not see wisdom in putting the happiness, or even health, of two people before the safety of the world, no matter how worthy they may be."

"Come now, Legolas," said Boromir, puffing up his chest. "They have already explained – in no foolish terms, I might add – their motives and reasoning, and most made the decision without the knowledge of Dís' pregnancy," he paused for a moment to raise his eyes to the sky and touch his fingers from his mouth to his heart, "may the Valar bless and protect her. But anyway, the elves' most famous love story is all about two people poking dark lords with big sticks for 'personal happiness.'"

"Yes, because the tale of Beren and Lúthien had a happy ending," drawled Aragorn, an eyebrow raised. "Though on your other points, I agree."

"The ending is happy enough, by my reading," replied Boromir, before turning to the elf. "Legolas? All things considered, what do you think?"

The elf closed his eyes. "You are so young. But you have my bow. I will help you how I can. Though, someone ought to take a message back to Rivendell. And that someone ought to be Pippin."

"I beg your pardon?" Nelly's brother cried, even as she muttered, "My sentiments exactly."

"You are very young still, Pippin," said Legolas sombrely, and Boromir and Gimli both nodded. "You cannot guess the horrors that lie on the road, and unlike your cousins you are not even close to your majority."

"Look," said Pippin, crossing his arms over his chest, "send me back if you can. But I'll follow you like a hound until I find you again, unless you chain me to a tree and leave me to starve."

Despite his casual stance, there was a defiance in Pippin's voice and an ice in his eyes that Nelly could not help but respect.

"We left a note," said Frodo quietly. "One that Bilbo will understand."

"One that won't give him a heart attack and lead him to instantly follow you, I hope," said Gimli.

"I hope so," said Frodo. "But better for him to follow than to lead. He won't catch us."

After a long pause, Legolas sighed. "Very well. If we are to leave, let it be now. I do not doubt that your, decision, will be noticed soon enough."

Nelly did not know what to say – she barely knew what to think. That their pursuers would agree, that they would _join_ them…

She had never even conceived the thought that out of their conspiracy, a new fellowship would be born.

 **Duh duh duhhhhh! This chapter was so fun to write, but so much pressure as well, because it's been planned for so long! I've been practising my foreshadowing, so I hope it paid off.**

 **So, what do you think? I'd love to know, please do leave a review if you can!**

 **And have a good day!**


	17. Chapter 17: Of Race and Revelations

**Thank you for your lovely response to the last chapter, I'm so sorry for the long wait! I've had a sudden move of house, hence the long wait, but fingers crossed things should be easier now :D**

 **As ever, I'm sorry for any mistakes I might have made, and hope that you will read, enjoy and review :D**

 **Chapter Seventeen # Of Race and Revelations #**

Of his three nephews, the last one Thorin had expected to almost start a race war and take a potentially apocalyptic situation into his own hands would be Frodo. The boy had always had a great deal of sense about him, and a friendly diplomacy that Thorin silently admired. He was neither rash, nor selfish, and thought often of how to improve and sustain relations between the races.

What Frodo had done was not a grab at glory. Thorin knew it could not be, not for Frodo. Not the boy who had to be hunted down by Dwalin to attend his bi-weekly swordplay lessons.

It was for these reasons that Thorin was more sorrowful than angry at the young hobbit's decision. When they marched into the meeting and told the assembled elves, wizard, hobbits and dwarves of what had occurred, however, a couple of elves gave him a direction for his anger.

"Such treachery has not been seen since the dark days," declared Galdor, the pretentious messenger from the Grey Havens. He had a rather stupid face, in Thorin's opinion – his eyes were too narrow and his beardless chin as pointy as Nori's hair.

"Treachery?" snarled Dwalin, before Thorin could get a word in. "They are no traitors – fools, perhaps, but no traitors. They did this to protect their own, the damn idiots -"

"Or to play hero against foes they can barely envision," Galdor interrupted, punctuating his words with a sniff of his stupid, upturned nose.

Thorin had to fight to keep his tone and face diplomatic – Bilbo was pale enough as it was. "For some youngsters, perhaps, but not these. When they sought to come with us they raised valid points – they are skilled in both combat and, espionage," It was not the word Thorin wanted, but it would do. "They are young and strong, faithful and quiet – they can move with more subtly and silence than any elf, even Bróin. They are somewhat accustomed to long journeys, and know the basic geography and politics of Middle-Earth. Had logic overcome love, some may have been included in the counting of the Fellowship."

"That may be true," said Glorfindel, and Thorin's heart sank at the elf's soft, sad tone, "but they are untested in war and such great suffering. Their hearts are true and brave, yet they cannot fathom the darkness of the path to come."

For that, Thorin had no answer. A prickly silence fell over the table, and those gathered around lowered their eyes.

After a long moment, Erestor, an elf from Elrond's house, spoke in a very slow voice. "Some may deem that this was always meant to be the way. That fate chased them to this course."

"And some," said Esme tightly, "would tell fate to shove its head up its backside and drop adventure and doom on those who had already embraced it."

The younger dwarves and Saradoc gave grunts and murmurs of assent, and Paladin did not so much as tut at his sister's words, no matter how shocked Erestor seemed to be.

"We must go after them, now," insisted Kíli, his gaze blazing across the various folk seated around the large council room. "We must reclaim the ring, and the quest, send the young ones home and destroy the cursed thing ourselves."

"And who would claim the ring?" argued Galdor. "Master Baggins? Has it not been proven that halfings are unwise bearers? First Gollum, whose transgressions are black indeed, then Master Baggins, who was so indolent in his care that the thing was lost, and the latest halfling to take it is a thief."

The uproar caused by the elf's words had every dwarf on their feet, even Dís and Ori. Thorin's two calmest diplomats were yelling as loud as any, and Dís began to draw back her fist in an unmistakeable threat. The din was such that Thorin barely heard his own roar, though he did distinctly catch Saradoc's furious insistence that, "It's _Lord_ Baggins to you, you troll-brained mug-muffin!"

"Enough," Gandalf called, rising from his seat and bringing an instant hush. His face was stern and grave, but there was a fury blazing in his eyes that belied the calm tone of his voice. "Galdor, you do not know of what you speak. I have known these hobbits for nigh on seventy years, and I can assure you that they are no traitors, nor indeed ill-fit bearers of such a burden. At least, they are no worse than any other race, and better than some. And to compare Bilbo and Frodo Baggins to Gollum is most unfair, and if I may say so, an utter disgrace. Even when he had but glimpsed the ring, Gollum willingly murdered a dear friend to take it. Bilbo, on the other hand, spared the life of one who had attempted to murder and devour him. By race, perhaps, they are similar, but in character they are as different as a volcano and a snowflake."

A little of the tension eased from Thorin's shoulders as he realised that the wizard was indeed firmly on their side. No matter what he said to calm Kíli, Thorin had not been entirely sure of the wizard's thoughts. From the weak smile that Bilbo shot Gandalf, Thorin guessed his brother in law had shared similar doubts.

"Yet," continued Gandalf, "Kíli is right. This, conspiracy may have bitten off more than they can chew, and I fear for them. We should set out at once.

"Would not that draw the eye of the enemy straight to them?" worried Dís.

"Perhaps," admitted the wizard. "It is also possible, even likely, that the enemy could think a group so young merely scouts, and their pursuers the true company of the ring. There are risks to both action and inaction, my lady. We must trust now to the strength of our hearts, the judgement of our souls…" Gandalf sighed, and straightened his shoulders. "And the blades of our swords."

"Speaking of swords," said Glorfindel, "Aragorn took Anduril with him." Catching the confusion of those around him, the elf added, "The name given to the reforged sword of Elendil."

"Do you think they knew, then?" demanded Thorin. He could not speak for Aragorn or Boromir, or Thranduil's spawn, but Gimli would surely never hide such a thing from his king. Let alone his Aunt Dís.

To the dwarf's surprise, Glorfindel seemed to be thinking much the same thing. "I doubt it. I doubt the sword meant nothing more than a precaution. Yet it is not meaningless that it has left Rivendell, intact, at last. I do not doubt that Aragorn and his companions could be persuaded to join the cause, if they are unable to bring the young ones back."

"They won't," said Nori bluntly. "Can't bring 'em back, not with a group of four. It'd be easier to herd eagles on horseback with your hands tied behind your back. Those kids know more'n enough tactics to avoid that, 'specially Nelly and Bróin. They're quick as death, and can hide like shadows in sunlight. Gimli and the lads might catch one or two, but never all six. It ain't gonna happen."

Loathe as he was to admit it, Thorin knew that Nori was right. The innate skill of the hobbits with the training of the dwarves was a lethal combination, and Thorin began to pray that encouraging it in the past would not lead to the slaughter of his little dwobbits in the future.

"So, they would run?" surmised Galdor. "Or just kill their pursuers for 'the greater good,' if they are as skilled as you say."

It almost impressed Thorin that Elrond responded so quickly that the incensed dwarves, hobbits and wizard were still drawing breath. His voice cut across the protests and roars of anger before they began, and if the looks on the faces of Glorfindel and Erestor were anything to go by, he stopped the anger of a few elves, as well.

"That is _enough_ , Galdor. These are friends of Rivendell, and Gimli, their kin, was among the pursuers. I do not deem that any would think to turn sword to a friend, let alone their family." There was so much icy authority ringing in the elf's tone, that Thorin was surprised Galdor managed to create a coherent response.

But when the stupid creature spoke, his voice held more defeat than provocation. "We did not think Saruman would betray us." Then he sighed, and stared at the dwarves. "You would ask the same of me, were they my kin."

Begrudgingly, Thorin accepted that he most certainly would.

For a moment, all was silent. Then, Gandalf moved his staff into his hands and spoke. "I suggest that those who will split into three groups – one to hasten to Erebor, one to retrieve the young conspirators, and one to reclaim the quest, and journey to Mordor themselves. For a time the groups may well travel together, which would mean that if we are lucky, the first two groups could journey to Erebor together, with greater numbers and safety.

"That," said Thorin before any elf could speak, "is not a bad idea."

Gandalf smiled at him, a true, genuine smile that Thorin had not received for a very long time. Despite his mood, Thorin smiled back.

"Moreover," said the wizard, finally breaking his gaze. "I would have messages sent to the Shire. They ought to be warned that war may be coming, and prepare themselves as best they can.

Thorin found himself nodding along with the hobbits.

Dwalin pursed his lips and narrowed his eyebrows – a sign of a great dilemma whirring inside his head. "What of the wee ones? The bairns too young to fight?"

Elrond smiled. "I will not retract my offer of sanctuary. Any who need or wish to stay are more than welcome, and shall remain under my protection for as long as it can last."

Standing up, Dwalin bowed deeply, and Thorin felt just a little of the weight drip off his own shoulders. Like his friend, he had feared that the actions of Frodo's group would have dissuaded Elrond from sheltering their youngest.

"Right," said Kíli tightly, stretching his arms out in front of him before staring around the group with determined eyes. "Let's get down to business."

* * *

Travelling on a dangerous, top secret mission was quieter than Sam expected.

Of course, he had not expected to be chatting and singing all the way into Mordor, but even when they were riding at a good pace there had been a good deal of talking before Gimli and the others caught them up. Quiet talking, they were not fools, after all, but easy talk nevertheless.

Sam did not trust the new silence. For that matter, he did not trust the newcomers.

Gimli, of course, was all but family, and Sam loved him dearly, yet he did not trust him. He was not wholly convinced that Gimli would not try and seize them by the ear when their guard was down, and drag them back to Rivendell.

Legolas looked like he very much wanted to do just that. His eyes were impassive as stone, but his mouth was the tight line of one sucking a lemon. Sam did not think they had the elf on board, and as such he was suspicious of Legolas' motives for remaining with them. And that was not even taking the men into account. Boromir had keen eyes and a very big sword, and Aragorn had already proven himself a more than capable fighter.

If the hunters turned on the conspiracy, there would be trouble.

When night began to fall they simply continued, as they had before, until Pippin spotted a good spot to camp beneath a small overhang. Bróin lit a small, smokeless fire, and the light danced over the campers, painting shadows over their faces. Ignoring the hunters, Sam took up his designated position of cook, and began tossing the day's rations into his pot.

Some blunt, awkward attempts at conversation littered the time leading up to dinner, and it was not until they were all eating that Boromir cleared his throat and broke the silence with a full sentence. "So, which course are we actually taking?"

Sam looked up sharply, but it was Nelly who answered. Obviously.

"We're heading for the Redhorn Pass."

Gimli spat out his soup. "Are you mad?"

"No," said Frodo mildly. "That was the course that Gandalf and Bilbo were leaning toward, given that the gap of Rohan lies so close to Isengard. You must know that, Gimli?"

"Aye," he growled, wiping his moustache. "But I thought you'd have had more sense. Caradhras-"

"The cruel," chanted each of the conspirators.

"We know," added Merry.

"But what option would you suggest?" Nelly raised her eyebrows, and Gimli said nothing. "We do have a back-up, of course."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"Moria."

It was Aragorn's turn to choke on his supper. "What?" The man looked almost pale in the firelight.

Gimli, however, stroked his beard. "Balin has been sending out scouts for the past two years. They found little sign of recent orc activity, the place seemed abandoned. Thorin was considering sending an envoy there to reclaim the city, but I doubt anyone will think of that now."

"That is folly indeed," said Boromir, shaking his head slowly. "The Black Mines are filled with dangers beyond orcs, if half the tales are true."

"Don't worry," said Nelly lightly, before anyone could get offended. "We'll only make for the mines if we can't cross the big snowy mountain."

Boromir stared at her for a long moment, his eyes slightly narrowed. "Do you have any idea the dangers that encompass crossing Caradhras? You seem to think of this as if it were a picnic."

Uh oh. Sam glanced at Nelly. Her eyebrows had drawn dangerously low over her eyes, and her voice rang out cold and hard.

"Oh, do I? Because I do not twitter about doom and gloom after every sentence? If I swooned, perhaps, would you think me better suited? Of course not. I see the danger, and I respect it, but I will not fear it. Fear chases away common sense, and that is something that we cannot afford to lose. Especially with Pippin in the company."

Her brother frowned deeply, but Merry grabbed Pippin's wrist and shook his head before the younger hobbit could reply.

"I doubt not your heart." Boromir put down his bowl and put his hands on his knees. "But you cannot simply deny danger, and I am not sure you have thought this through. Women have different needs than-"

Before the man could finish, every other member of the group shuffled quickly and shamelessly backwards, and Boromir stared at them in confusion. Nelly, however, laughed. It was not her usual laugh, it was tighter and colder.

"I ask for nothing more than the boys ask for, and I will do everything that they do. Often, I do it better."

"That," muttered Pippin, "is sadly true."

"Do not worry yourself, Master Boromir. I know how to take care of myself, and any 'needs' I may have. If you have a problem with my being here, either we duel to see if my sword is as good as my word, or you go back to Rivendell to tell my Papa where his wee lass has gone." With that, Nelly tossed her hair over her shoulders, and took a deep breath. Then, she smiled wryly. "Come now, boys, I can hold my temper. Nowadays."

Sam glanced suspiciously at Frodo, but the young Baggins was grinning, and shaking his head. Frodo was the first to return to his prior seat, continuing with his meal as though nothing had happened.

"Aye, but none of us have forgotten the tantrum of 2950," said Bróin darkly, though he grinned and returned to her side. Then he sighed, drew back his shoulders, and stared Boromir in the eye. "I understand your concern. _I_ wouldn't take any woman on this trip. I wouldn't take my mother or my sisters – but I wouldn't take just any man either. I wouldn't take Bofin, even. Doesn't like travel, Bofin, and he's not the strongest fighter or tracker either. He'd want to _want_ to come, but he'd hate every second of it. And worry all the time. Now, I _would_ take Auntie Esme or Dís or Vinca, if they were willing, for they are as strong and brave as we are. And trust me, we're better off with Nelly here."

Sam nodded sharply at this, and saw Nelly give Bróin a grateful smile. Boromir looked thoughtful for a long moment, then inclined his head.

"It is not in the culture of my people to send women on dangerous missions, or see them fight with the men. We see that as careless and cruel, and a failure on the part of our men-folk. Yet I yield to both your logic and your custom. I assure you, I meant no offense by my words. I am sorry." He bowed his head with his hand on his chest, and Nelly stared at him for a long moment.

Then she smiled wryly. "Your apology is accepted, and appreciated. I suppose culture clashes will be inevitable, now."

Aragorn gave a sigh like a laugh, and shook his head. "I don't doubt it. In Gondor it would be highly offensive to fail to mention the needs and allowances of a woman, particularly on so dangerous a quest."

"Among dwarves it is manners to ask if anything is needed," said Gimli, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Yet rude to imply that you think it necessary. And, of course, when it comes to Nelly, it's better just to pretend she was born a boy."

She pulled a face but made no comment. Silence fell over them like a scratchy woollen blanket, and Sam returned his focus to his dinner. Again, it was Boromir who spoke.

"So. Which one of you has the ring?"

"Why'd you want to know?" Sam said immediately, the hairs on the back of his head beginning to rise as his eyes narrowed.

Boromir looked rather surprised. "Why should I not know?"

"You might throw whoever has it over your shoulder and run back to Rivendell," said Sam hotly, staring intently at the man.

Boromir's cheeks flushed and his eyebrows lowered angrily. "Have you so little trust in us?" he gestured to Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. "You say this is a matter of the 'greater good' – if we run into orcs, say, who shall we protect if only one can be saved? How can we know who will need more support than any other on this quest? There is wisdom in secrecy, but secrets between allies rarely breed good fortune."

"I agree," said Aragorn quietly, rubbing his chin. "We ought to know, Sam. We mean no harm."

Sam huffed and folded his arms, but he did not say any more.

Gimli stared at each of them in turn, and then sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fíli and Kíli are going to kill me," he muttered, his voice barely audible. Were they not next to each other, Sam would have missed it. Then Gimli looked up and sighed again, speaking for all to hear. "Frodo has it."

Sam and the others all tensed, and Frodo's hands delved deeper into his pockets.

Nelly's sharp tongue beat even Sam to the chase. "What makes you say that?"

Raising his head, Gimli shot her a withering look that was so similar to his father's glare that Sam half thought Glóin had joined them. "I know you. All of you." Sam felt his ears start to go pink. He felt quite guilty enough for running away like this, and did not need Gimli adding to his shame. "It was Bilbo's ring, so Frodo took it." Though he was not sure, Sam thought he caught the dwarf muttering, "And you wouldn't let anyone else take it."

Slowly, Frodo nodded. Wariness lingered in his gaze, but he held his head high. "I have it."

"We debated passing it around," admitted Bróin. "Lest anyone get over-fond of the stupid thing."

"But we decided against it," finished Nelly.

"I take it this was your idea in the first place, Frodo?" asked Aragorn. There was no accusation in his voice, only a calm interest.

"Yes and no." Frodo sighed, and leant back against a nearby tree. He looked exhausted, and Sam felt a surge of sympathy for his friend. "I was determined to do something, but I knew Bilbo would be watching me, so it was Merry and Pippin who watched the council. As it turned out, Nelly was watching too."

"Never rely on another's report if you can collect the information yourself," Nelly recited.

"It's one of Nori's 'rules'," said Pippin.

Frodo ignored them both and continued. "She saw Merry and Pippin sneaking away afterwards, and we met the next day for a council of our own."

"It was a group decision," Merry concluded.

"You were watching the council?" Legolas spoke sharply, and Sam noticed with a start that it was the first time the elf had spoken since they sat down. "I did not see you."

"We were in the bushes just behind Bilbo's head," said Merry. "And Nelly was up a tree behind us, even we didn't see her."

"Told you," Nelly smirked. "I'm sneaky." Then she glanced up at the sky and her smile faded. "We should set a watch and get some sleep. We're up before dawn again tomorrow."

"Voluntarily?" Gimli raised an eyebrow.

"Unfortunately," sighed Pippin. He had not enjoyed their early mornings – in fact Frodo had pushed him out of his bedroll that morning.

"You caught us up," Nelly pointed out grimly. "If we are lucky there will be another day or so before the others figure it out, but we cannot rely on luck. We must put as much distance as possible between us and Rivendell. It will be a hard ride tomorrow if we are to reach Hollin the day after."

"That is a tight schedule indeed." Aragorn frowned and glanced at Gimli. "Possible for the wolves and the horses, but will your pony keep up?"

Gimli puffed up his chest and scowled. "Odo's one of the fastest ponies I've ever seen, and he has the heart of a lion. He'll do just fine."

Sam glanced at the snoozing pony and rubbed his jaw. He missed Bill, and had hated the look in the pony's eyes when Sam had called a wolf instead of his own trusty steed, but it was more sensible. And safer for dear old Bill.

"We'll see," Frodo said doubtfully. "But if he cannot keep up we may need to take the baggage from Kanna, and then you can ride her, Gimli."

The wolf in question let out a soft whine, and then got to her feet and stretched, before trotting over to Gimli to lick him on the nose.

"Perhaps," the dwarf acquiesced, scratching Kanna's nose. "We shall see. Wait – how did you get so much baggage?"

Nelly shrugged. "Merry and Pippin. If they're good for anything, it's smuggling food."

 **That's it for today folks :) I hope that you enjoyed that chapter, there'll be more action very soon! Please let me know what you thought, what you think (or hope) will happen and what you think I can improve if you have the time and the fancy to review. I love it so much when you do!**

 **Thank you all, and have a lovely day!**


	18. Chapter 18: Burning Cold

**Hello all! Thanks to my loyal reviewers, I love you all :D Here's a quick update for you, I hope you enjoy it and forgive any mistakes that I've made!**

 **Read. Enjoy. Review.**

 **Chapter Eighteen # Burning Cold #**

Bifur had spent most of his life caring for children that shared his blood. None were his own, yet his little brothers, his cousins and now his nephews and nieces all shared a bloodline that bound them through years and sorrows. When he had become soul carer of Bofur and Bombur with a severe headwound and the recent loss of his entire family, Bifur had known what to expect. From his cousins, at least. Despite what they would have the world believe, Bombur and Bofur were both predictable, at least to one who knew them so well as Bifur did.

They always made him proud, and did things that impressed him, but he was never really surprised. Of course, Bofur would cry at the loss of a hat and not the breaking of a bone – pain did not bother the young dwarf half as much as sadness. Of course, Bombur would fall in love with a fussy eater – he appreciated kindness and an open heart far more than he did food, and he would live off nothing but vegetables if it would make his Marta happy.

Bombur's children were much the same. Of course, Ola would refuse to speak in Iglishmek with Uncle Bifur – her hands were always far too busy fidgeting with a little toy or piece of string or her hair, and he could understand _her_ words just fine.

Of course, Bróin would run off with Nelly and Frodo in a valiant (if stupid) effort to save his family, and the world – the boy had never feared harm to himself, and had been an adventurer since birth.

But Bifur was surprised by Bofin.

"I'm coming with you, Uncle Bofur."

"You most certainly are not," Bofur snarled, more harshly than he intended to if his wince was anything to go by. "You're to stay here with your sisters and Bodin."

"No," Bofin swallowed, shifting awkwardly on his large feet. Bifur paused, his surprise growing. Bofin was the antonym of petulance, and when he said 'no,' he always had cause. "No, I have to come with you. I have to make sure Bro is safe. If I was you and Adad had run off, you'd follow."

"Aye, but you're not me, and Bróin's not your father." Bofur paused, tugging on his moustache, and then added more gently. "He's my responsibility, not yours, I've told you that, lad. I'll bring him home."

His ears growing redder by the second, Bofin shook his head, and Bifur's own head began to tilt slightly to the side, as if that would help him understand. "I have to come with you.

" _Why?"_ asked Bifur, and Bofin's soft green eyes flickered to the older dwarf's face. _"Why do you wish to go? There is no dishonour staying, you know that. You know others are more capable of protecting your brother – you do not like to travel rough, little one."_

"I have to," Bofin insisted, twisting his hands in his shirt the same way that Bombur would when he was talking about anything important. "If I stay, I, I won't be able to forgive myself."

Bofur pushed his fingers into his eyes. "Yet you'll forgive yourself for leaving your sisters and brother in Rivendell with no kin there beside them?"

Bifur stared intently at Bofin. The boy, though nowhere near the girth of his father, was larger around the middle than your average dwarf, and his round face often saw him confused for the younger sibling when he stood beside the taller, more toned Bróin. Not only in looks did he resemble Bombur – Bofin was soft spoken and gentle (with the obvious exception of bickering with his siblings) and he did not much like hardships or hunger, even if the easier road bore less fruit.

 _"I need enough to fill my plate,"_ Bombur used to say, when Bofur spoke of quests and treasure hunts and riches. _"No need looking for coin to fill my pockets."_

But if he was this determined to go…

 _"I will stay,"_ said Bifur, and both Bofur and Bofin stared at him in shock. _"I will stay with Bodin and the twins. You will go in my place. If you do not wish to tell me why, I will not pry, but this is important to you, I see. Not simply a thought that this is what you_ should _do."_ He looked at Bofur as he finished speaking, and his young cousin seemed to shrink somehow, and age a hundred years in the same moment. His laughter lines looked more like wrinkles, and his eyes were heavy with grief. His mouth was tight with worry, with no room for his usual smile.

Finally, he nodded. "Go and put together a pack, and put on your mail." He said dully. "We ride at noon, you've got two hours. If you're sure."

Bofin nodded, but it was not the eager joy of a child allowed to go on an adult trip. It was solemn, meaningful and strong and yet somehow gentle still. It reminded Bifur of the great eagles, and how their strength was undiminished by the soft down of their feathers.

As the boy left the room, Bofur turned to Bifur with misted eyes. "What'm I going to tell Bombur? I lost one of his boys and then took the other into uncertain but inescapable danger?"

" _Tell him I told you to."_ Bifur took his cousin's arm. _"Breathe."_

Bofur let out a hollow laugh, but obeyed. In and out, in and out, for a moment he simply breathed. When Bifur was satisfied, be spoke again.

 _"This is not a whim, nor misguided. You know that."_

"He's so young," moaned Bofur, pulling at his braids again. "Bombur's gonna kill me, and he'd be right to."

 _"My decision,"_ Bifur reminded him, staring pointedly at his cousin until Bofur took another deep breath. _"He is seventy-two – little younger than Kíli on the quest."_

"And look what that quest did to him," Bofur protested, his eyes growing even heavier with the weight of memory. "The nightmares, the mind sickness – it damn near killed him."

 _"I do not want him to go,"_ admitted Bifur. _"It hurts my heart to see it. But he is like his father. He is no drama queen. He will go, or he will regret it until the day that he dies."_

"And if he dies on the road?" rasped Bofur.

Bifur's heart stuttered, and he closed his eyes, holding tighter to Bofur's arm. _"If – at least he would have the dignity of choice. He is not a child, Bofur. Many younger than he have gone to war."_

"And now lay in graves."

 _"It would crush me, if anything were to happen to either of those boys,"_ said Bifur sharply, forcing Bofur to look at him. _"It would kill me. But that does not make this decision wrong."_

Tears began to tip out of Bofur's eyes. "I, I think you're right, Bif, but, by Mahal I wish that I didn't."

 _"I know,"_ mourned Bifur, feeling his own tears tickle his lashes.

"I feel I've failed them." Bofur's voice grew thicker. "Bróin and Bofin, both feeling they have to go, that their elders aren't enough, that _I'm_ not enough, and my Sam – Sam's going to make a shield of himself I just know it."

Bifur pulled Bofur into a crushing hug, and his cousin embraced it with the ferocity of a dying man. Bifur could not really answer him about Bróin or Bofin or brave little Sam, because the same fears were plaguing his own mind.

So he said all he could. _"You are not a failure. Our boys are simply stupid."_ Bofur's laugh was a little stronger, as was his grip around Bifur's neck. _"You care for Bofin. I will make sure the little ones are well. I have the easier job, I fear."_ He did not need to ask Bofur not to think of him as a coward. Bifur knew that the thought would not pass Bofur's mind.

"You take care of yourself," insisted Bofur. "I want to see you back in Erebor by next Durin's Day."

Bifur smiled sadly, and then finally pulled away. _"I am proud of you."_

"Aye," smiled Bofur, with a half-hearted, "so you should be."

Then Bofur took a deep breath, wiped his eyes, twirled his moustache and straightened his hat. He painted a smile onto his face that almost turned the wrinkles into laughter lines, and wore the cheerful mask until Bifur saw him last, riding away with Bofin by his side.

And Bifur was not surprised.

* * *

It would be so much easier if she did not love the baby.

If she did not love the baby, Dís would not mourn when it was lost. And it would be when – the last four pregnancies had resigned her to that. She was not young, and it seemed that it a babe of mixed blood was never meant to be. If she did not love the baby, that would not hurt so much.

If she did not love the baby, it would be easier to hide the growing bump beneath the leather corset that doubled as body armour, for it would not feel that it a was secret worth keeping.

If she did not love the baby, it would be easier to blame it – if Frodo had not guessed, if the sweet, stupid little boy she had long thought of as a son had not noticed the headaches and nausea she had so desperately hid and put it all together, would he still have taken the ring? She was not sure, but if she did not love the baby she could blame it, and hate it for driving Frodo to such extremes.

She could hate it from stopping her joining Bilbo and Kíli in the first place.

If she did not love the baby, she would not be burdened by her decision to follow Frodo. Dwarven women stayed active throughout most pregnancies, but riding as fast as ponies would allow for as long as they could manage day after day on an uncertain road was not recommended. If she did not love the baby, her heart would not lurch and every stumble of her pony's hooves, and she would not carry the guilt of wondering if saving one child would lose her the other.

But Frodo was alive, and she knew this. The poor soul in her womb would probably never live, even if she confined herself to bedrest for the coming months. If she did not love the baby, it would not hurt so much. But even though she loved her baby, she knew that she had to put Frodo first. He was in more danger, yet she had a greater chance to save him.

As such, she had decided to take the role of leader in the group targeting the conspiracy themselves. With her were Paladin, Saradoc and Esme, as well as the elf Erestor, Bofin, and Vinca. Eyebrows had raised at the news that the youngest hobbit lass would be going, but as her father pointed out, few had such a keen eye for tracking as Pervinca Took. She always had been an observant little girl.

But she was no little girl now. She wielded two swords, much like Fíli did, yet where Fíli's blades were broad, hers were rapier thin, and she had long mastered the speed based fighting style that Dwalin had taught all the hobbits. Even in travelling clothes, she looked like a lady, but Vinca was deadly.

Dís was glad to have her. Already she had pointed out nuances in their path, and they had barely left Rivendell. It was Vinca the discovered the half-rotten orc corpses, even before the elves did, and Vinca who first concluded they had little to do with the wayward conspiracy.

They were lucky to have her.

As Gandalf had suggested, the three groups had left Rivendell together – those returning to Erebor, those headed for Mordor, and those planning to seize the young numbskulls by the earlobes and drag them back to Erebor.

There were almost twenty of them, and the size of the group worried Dís. Scouts had returned reports of empty lands, with no sign of orcs or wraiths, or anything more dangerous than a fox, yet Dís was uneasy. The world was soon to be at open war, and they were not exactly a group of little importance to either side.

Safety in numbers was, of course, an advantage, but stronger was the aching gratitude Dís felt for the extra time with her sons and husband, and even her brother. Even if it was far from merry.

Her heart felt like it was caught in a hurricane, but Dís rode with her head held high and her emotions locked deep inside. They would have to be if her family were to escape this doom alive. Soon, too soon, she would be sundered from Kíli and Bilbo, and perhaps Fíli too. She prayed that they caught Frodo in time – without his brother and Bilbo, Fíli would need her more than ever.

But, she reminded herself, with a steadying breath, he had Thorin. Her children would have some sort of parent with them, even if they were parted from her. And they were not children anymore.

But if she never saw them again –

Dís gasped, her hand flying from the reins to rest upon her stomach. Then, again, she felt it.

A familiar fluttering sensation, a feeling like bubbles rising through her belly.

Again, it came, so soft she might have missed it, but unmistakeable.

The baby was moving.

Dís closed her eyes, and dragged her hand back to the reins.

It would be so much easier if she did not love her baby.

* * *

As it transpired, Odo the pony could keep up with the wolves. Frodo was convinced that it was sheer stubbornness, learnt from his master. The pony would often lag towards the bag of the group, but if ever someone suggested it was slowing them down, Gimli would dig in gently with his heels and the pony would throw back its black mane, snort in annoyance and trot to the front of the group.

In a way, it reminded Frodo of Uncle Thorin.

However, despite Odo's brave speed, they did not reach Hollin the day after tomorrow. Instead, it was the day following that – a week to the day after they left Rivendell. Frodo did not mind a little leeway on their proposed schedule. Even as they had written it, studying maps and making calculations and plans, they had left some wiggle room. As it was, when they were travelling to and from Erebor, it usually took them two or even three weeks to reach this point, if they had passed through Rivendell.

Usually, they did not. It had long been safer to pass through the gap of Rohan than try and cross the Misty Mountains with wagons and children, so more often they took the Green Way, straight from the Shire to the river Isen.

As such, Frodo did not know Hollin well, but he liked the land. There was a rich, wholesome air about it, and they had passed through it this year. Bilbo had wanted to visit Rivendell on the way to the Shire, though it had delayed them. Frodo suspected that he had been hoping to run into Gandalf.

No. Frodo could not think of Bilbo and Gandalf. The guilt burnt his heart too strongly, no matter how firmly he believed in his cause.

The ring, his beautiful ring, was so precious to him, so dear already, and already he loathed it. And loathed the idea of anyone taking it from him. Bilbo would likely never forgive him. Frodo knew he would just have to live with that, and he knew that he _could_ live with that, as long as Bilbo was alive.

Instead, he turned his attention back to Hollin – the trees, the grass, the clear air. It was peaceful, quiet.

It was very quiet.

Frodo did not notice how quiet it was. He simply rode until the sun had almost waned, and then slipped from his wolf's back and slumped down next to Sam at the campfire. It was Bróin's turn to cook, and everyone's moods were a little lighter. Having no sign of pursuit from friend or foe had taken a little of the stress from their hearts, and Frodo felt comfortable beneath the early moon.

Even Legolas seemed to have relaxed a little – he was smiling and talking with the others, at least. And goading Gimli.

"Wait," Aragorn said, cutting across a comment from Gimli about Thranduil. Frodo was a little disappointed – he did not like Thranduil much, and the insult was looking to be a good one. Nevertheless, he turned his attention back to Aragorn. "What is that? Legolas?"

Frodo turned and looked over his shoulder. His frowned – silhouetted in the darkening sky was a large, dark shape, or many shapes, he could not be sure.

"A gust of wind?" suggested Gimli, though he did not sound like he believed it for a second.

"It's moving fast." Boromir's hand moved to his sword. "Against the wind."

"Crebain, from Dunland!" Legolas cried, turning wildly to Aragorn, who immediately barked out, "Hide!"

With a start, Frodo dropped his dinner and dove on the fire with Sam, stomping it out with his bare feet. Grabbing his pack, he wheeled around to look for somewhere to hide, only to have his ankle pulled out from underneath him. He crashed onto the floorwith a startled 'umph!', and was then swiftly tugged beneath a nearby bush.

"Sorry for the gravel rash," whispered Bróin. "You were hesitating, cousin."

Despite himself, a small smile flickered across Frodo's face, and he poked Bróin's nose with his toe. The pain was stinging, but he knew it was temporary, momentary in fact. And unimportant.

Beneath the leaves, he saw the scrambling feet of the others disappear one by one. He held his breath, and felt his hand clench around the ring that hung around his neck.

Frodo closed his eyes.

A few moments later, he heard flapping and squawking, just overhead. He felt Bróin stiffen beside him, but they did not move. Not even when the noises stopped, and they were left to the silence. It was fully dark before anyone moved again.

"Come," Aragorn called quietly, after what felt like a lifetime. "The coast is clear. But I suggest we travel in the dark now – these lands are being watched, and our steeds will have been seen."

Frodo crawled out on his belly, and found he could see just a little in the light of moon. The wolves, horses, and pony all looked rather disgruntled.

"By who?" asked Pippin, crawling out of a nearby bush with twigs in his hair and a look of annoyance to rival the steeds. "What's a crebain?"

"Crebain, they are birds – crow like, with sharp eyes." Aragorn shared a meaningful look with Legolas, a look that Frodo did not like. "They may well be spies of Saruman."

Frodo groaned, and kneaded his eyes with his fists. He had been looking forward to sleep. "We must leave, then, now."

"Must?" Aragorn shook his head. "No. But I would recommend it."

"We shall," Nelly declared, sighing heavily. "If we ride hard through the night we can rest in morning, with a better place to hide, if we draw close enough to the mountains." At the men's hesitance, she added, "The wolves and pony did worse on the way to Rivendell. They can cope with another ride now."

Denahi howled softly, and then nuzzled Merry's neck and nudged his waist.

"They're ready to go," Merry said, smiling wearily.

Pippin sighed dramatically. "Let's just get on then. I'm tired, and I want to go to sleep." With that, he climbed on top of Fíli's wolf, Sokka, and let his eyes begin to droop. The wolf gave a laugh-like huff, and then stood and waited patiently for the others.

So, they rode through the night, and only Pippin slept.

Two days later, they reached the feet of Caradhras.

Frodo gazed up at the enormous mountain and sighed. He was not looking forward to this at all. He loved Erebor with all his heart, and had a great fondness for mountains, but he preferred being in them to climbing up them. Especially when climbing up them in the winter, when it was likely to snow, and the mountain had a reputation for being 'cruel' that preceded even Sauron.

Boromir had reminded them all to take bundles of any dry wood and kindling that they could find to carry with them, but Aragorn had warned against a fire if they could avoid it.

"We do not know who, if anyone, sent the crebain, and we do not know who else may be watching."

When finally they took their first steps towards the mountain path, Aragorn held up his hand. "One more thing must be done. We cannot take the horses up the mountain."

Gimli snorted, and shared a smug smirk with Bróin, but Boromir and Legolas both nodded in a resigned manner.

"Seems a pity to leave them," said Boromir, patting his horse's neck. "This fellow came from Rohan – he has been a great companion."

Legolas dismounted swiftly. "I will bless them. They will find a safe path home."

As he did so, Aragorn looked to the dwobbits and Gimli. "Will the wolves and pony be capable of taking such a path?"

Several of the wolves let out whines of indignation, and it was Merry who answered for them. "They'll have less problems than we will, I'd wager. The younger ones were born and bred in the mountain – our mountain that is, but still. They can handle the terrain, so can Odo." Frodo's cousin cast his eyes up the mountain and pulled a face. "Unless we meet something up there we haven't met before."

With a heavy heart, Frodo watched the horses canter away. Aragorn's horse hesitated for a moment, looking over his shoulder at his master, who raised a hand in farewell. Frodo hoped that they would find a safe path home, and he hoped that the wolves and pony would be able to handle the treacherous pass.

It was a slow process compared to their previous speed. Despite the somewhat difficult terrain, they had found easy paths through Aragorn's expertise, Frodo's map-knowledge and Nelly's cunning, and to be moving at a walking pace felt odd. As their path grew more twisted and steep, they slowed further, and they had scarcely climbed for three hours when the first snow began to fall.

At first, it looked rather beautiful, but it quickly picked up speed. Frodo's toes curled, and he buried his feet in Sitka's thick, warm fur. The wolf, for his part, did not seem bothered by the weather. He panted slightly at the incline, but his eyes were bright and his tongue poked out every so often to catch the snowflakes.

It was so cold.

The wind was bitter, and accosted them from all sides, throwing flakes so thick that soon it was hard to see. Frodo lost track of the hours quickly, and almost lost track of his companions. He could see the vague, dark shape of Aragorn in front of him, his arm shielding his face as he ploughed through thigh deep snow. If he looked behind, he could just about make out Sam, whose hood wore a snowy hat of its own.

He could not see the others.

The wind bent him lower and lower, until his face was buried in Sitka's neck. Only his eyes poked over the wolf's head, because he felt like he should probably look where they were going. His eyes stung and watered, and he wiped them quickly in case tears froze on his face.

Never in his entire life had Frodo been this cold. Not even when he fell into the Long Lake one winter while playing with Tilda, Bard's daughter. He could not stop from shivering, and his winter cloak could have been made of lace, for all the warmth it gave him. Like the other dwobbits, Frodo wore fingerless gloves, a gift from Ori, but he was beyond grateful for Sitka's coat, and for the warmth that the wolf maintained despite the frigid temperature.

Wolves were made for snow and ice. Hobbits were not.

With every inch of snow that fell, their progress was slowed, as the wolves' powerful legs pushed Snowflakes began to catch on his eyelashes, and Frodo slipped back until he was no longer sitting on Sitka, but lying on the wolf's back the way that Merry rode Denahi. That thought shook some of the weariness from him, and he strained his eyes to try and see his young cousin.

He may as well have been blind.

He lowered his head again miserably, and hoped that Denahi was able to manage the snow without his front leg with the added weight of a freezing hobbit.

Frodo wanted to go back. It seemed much more appealing to risk the mines, but he knew that they had to try, at least. The discomfort of a single hobbit would not turn them around. So, he held his tongue and hugged Sitka's neck. He wished that he could be hugging his aunt, and not just her wolf.

But that was now as likely as Bilbo forgiving him. Dís would be furious at his theft, and beyond furious to learn that he had told people her secret.

"We have to find shelter!" Boromir roared from the very back of the group, startling Frodo out of his thoughts.

 _Shelter. Yes, shelter would be nice._

"There is a slight cave ahead." Legolas' voice still managed to sound light and airy, yet it was not caught by the wind. "Just another mile or so."

Another mile! It may as well be another mountain.

His icy eyelashes began to pull together like magnets, and he found it harder and harder not to fall asleep.

 _I'm… turning into Pippin,_ he thought, sighing softly.

Then, all of a sudden, he was hit in the small of the back, and his eyes ripped open.

"We're here." Gimli said gruffly, his beard full of snow. "It's not what we would call a cave, but it will do."

To Frodo's dismay, Gimli was right. The promised cave was little more than an overhang, and barely shelter from the wind and snow. A thin layer of white flakes had been blown in by the wind, and looked like one of Bilbo's lace doily's on Dís' granite counters. At the back, it was barely tall enough for a hobbit to stand, and the walls on either side were sparse, but on the plus side it seemed wide and deep enough to fit the entire group in, wolves and pony included. The men would have to crouch, especially at the back, but that could not be helped.

Frodo scurried deep inside as quickly as he could, and sat with his back to the stone with Sam at his side. They huddled together like the ice birds in one of Bofur's stories, and were soon joined by the Tooks. Pippin was stumbling almost blindly, and there were snowflakes clinging to his eyebrows and lashes. It would be funny if he did not look so close to frozen. Nelly's arm was wrapped around the small of his back, and he leant heavily on her until she helped him sit down next to Frodo.

With a sad smile, Frodo reached out and squeezed Pippin's hand. It was like ice, but his young cousin gave him a weak smile of his own and rested his head on Frodo's shoulder. He let out a sigh that misted in front of him, and closed his eyes. Beside him, Nelly hugged her knees to her chest and blew onto her red fingers.

"Are you alright, Nel?" he murmured.

"Never better," she replied wearily, snuggling up against Pippin as Bróin came and sat at her other side.

He and Gimli had fared better in the cold, but Bombur's son shivered a little as he shifted close to her and slung his arm over her shoulders. He was young, Bróin, and Frodo often had to remind himself that the dwarf was only in his early tweens (or at least would be, if he were a hobbit.) Still, there was a little more cheer in his grin and redness in his cheeks as he settled down with them. Gimli took Sam's other side, and Odo lay down beside him, but when Legolas came in he sat a little way away. He did not look particularly fussed by the snow, and Frodo found that he did not feel too fond of the elf in those moments.

The wolves slipped in next, filling up the spaces and lying close to the hobbits. Sokka, Fíli's wolf, lay across the feet of Frodo and Pippin, his sandy fur warming their toes, and a lump grew in Frodo's throat.

The moment Fíli had seen a blonde wolf pup in Lani's litter, he had cried out in delight and instantly claimed the wolf as his new best friend. Thorin had shaken his head in dismay, and Bilbo had lightly pointed out that the wolf usually chose its own companion, but Fíli had ignored them both and doted on the pup ever since. Sokka, as the prince named the golden wolf, was as loyal to Fíli as Luno was to Kíli, though they were not inseparable. Sokka was more independent than Luno.

Frodo felt as though they had slapped Fíli in the face by bringing Sokka.

The hobbit sighed, and watched Aragorn duck into cave and sit as far in as he could, without scraping his head against the rough ceiling.

Well, at least they were all alive. Frodo closed his eyes and let his head drop against the back of the cave, but the second it touched the stone he looked up.

"Wait – where's Merry? And Boromir?" he asked, panic clawing its way up his throat. The others looked as surprised and afraid as he felt, but before Frodo could spring to his feet (or try to) a pair of legs appeared at the cave's entrance.

"Here," said Boromir's voice, as the man appeared at the overhang. He was cradling Merry in his arms. The young hobbit was shivering, and his hooded face leant against Boromir's chest. Behind them, Denahi limped into the cave, supported by Kanna. "We are here. Denahi fell. The snow provided too much of a challenge, I fear. I did call to you, but no one could hear."

"But what's wrong with Merry?" Pippin demanded, forcing open his half-close eyes. "Merry?"

"Cold'," said Boromir roughly, striding towards those sheltered at the back of the cave. "He is suffering from the cold."

"We're all suffering from the cold," protested Pippin. "Why don't you answer yourself, Merry?"

There was an awkward silence as Boromir looked pointedly at Aragorn. The ranger lowered his head, and Frodo's fingers dug into his arms. He thought he heard a soft groan from Merry, but it could have just been the moaning wind.

Beside him, Pippin began to panic. "Merry? Merry!"

"Calm down and light a fire," said Boromir, sitting cross legged with Merry in his lap. Frodo caught a glimpse of his cousin's face, and his breath froze in his lungs. Merry's face was icy pale, save only for blue lips and dark smudges beneath his eyes. But he was moving – Frodo could see his eyes roaming beneath his lids, and his face was slowly tilting towards the other hobbits. When Boromir looked up to see no one had moved, he barked, "Light a fire! Now!"

Bróin and Nelly fell forward, seizing their packs and pulling out the dried wood they had brought. Gimli scraped away the thin layer of snow in the centre of the cave, between the hobbits and the bigger folk. The trio they stacked the wood as best they could, before pulling out their tinder boxes. Meanwhile, Pippin crawled clumsily around the fire and sat by Merry's side.

Boromir was not idle. He had already stripped away Merry's sodden cloak and jacket, and then wrapped him in a spare blanket from the bottom of his own pack. Then, he began to speak, calmly yet firmly. "Wake up, Merry."

Frodo watched anxiously as Merry stirred just a little.

"Wake up," Pippin added, prodding Merry's nose. "Do wake up Merry."

Merry groaned, loudly.

"It's too windy!" moaned Nelly, as her small flame flickered out once more.

Glancing up from Merry, Boromir paused for a moment, before pulling his shield from his back. Aragorn guessed his meaning in a moment, and took the large shield quickly.

"The worst of the wind is from the North," he said, propping up the shield with some large sticks and rocks. "That should shelter some of it. For the rest, we must use bodies. Come, Legolas, Gimli, Bróin. We can fare the cold better than the halflings, and so can the beasts."

Within minutes, the wolves, pony, men and dwarves had formed enough of a barrier to allow a small fire to light. Guilt sparked in Frodo's heart as Bróin began to shake again, but the young dwarf refused to move, and soon the fire grew large enough to warm them a little.

A few minutes later, Merry opened his eyes. He gazed blearily at the fire, and then his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Wha'… wha' ha'ned?"

"You tell us," Boromir said, and Merry slowly looked up at the man holding him with a look of surprise. "Denahi fell, and I found you beside him in the snow."

Merry frowned, and then reached clumsily for Denahi, who had rested beside him. The wolf nuzzled his hand, and then licked it with a soft whine. "I, I th'nk I 'member," he said, his voice slurred. "I tumbled int'a the snow when 'e fell. He… trie' ta dig me ou' wi' his nose and his leg, but jus' buried me further."

The wolf howled mournfully, and Merry's fingers sank deeper into his fur.

"Was so tired. 'm so tired."

"Well, don't go back to sleep yet," said Boromir sharply. "You must eat something, and warm up first. If you do not, you may never wake again."

Pippin choked and Merry's eyes widened. Frodo squeezed his own eyes tightly shut. He had not wanted Merry and Pippin to come – he had not wanted any of his young cousins to come, and if they died on this forsaken mountain…

"S-sam," Bróin said, grinning despite chattering teeth. "You're on cooking tonight. I'm t-too busy being a wall."

"Right you are," said Sam, digging for his pots. As he began to throw water and some odd ingredients into the pan, Merry tried to sit up, only to fall back into Boromir's waiting arms.

"Stay still, lad," the man said with a wry smile. "We've got to keep you off the ground, away from the cold. How are you feeling?"

"Cold," Merry murmured, blinking slowly. "Tired. Confused. My limbs don' wanna do wha' I tell 'em. An' I'm hungry."

"Very well," Boromir smiled wearily. "You will eat, and then we will keep you warm as best we can. But we must leave here as soon as this storm is over. We cannot stay here. It will be the death of the hobbits."

Glumly and dumbly, Frodo agreed, but he looked at Aragorn. The man's lips were pursed, but he quickly nodded.

"I do not wish to go through the mines, but regardless we must leave this mountain."

"How long do you think the storm will last?" Nelly's voice was far more childlike than usual.

"I do not know," said Aragorn. "Perhaps all night, but maybe longer."

"There is a fell voice on the air," added Legolas. "This storm may be the doing of the enemy."

"Or the mountain itself," growled Gimli. "Caradhras is no friend to the two legged. But it does not matter who the enemy is if we cannot fight him. We must go down the mountain as soon as can be, and that is that."

His words lingered in the air as if awaiting a challenge, but none came. None had the heart or energy to argue.

"I was just wondering, because, well…" Nelly took a deep breath. "We're going through the wood very quickly."

With a start, Frodo realised that she was right.

Boromir took a deep breath. "I suggest we put food first – something hot in our bellies will help keep the cold at bay. And Merry, the most, must be kept warm, but not too close to the fire, lest he warm up too fast. Then, we must hold out for as long as we can."

"How do you know all this?" Pippin yawned.

"I was raised beneath the shadows of mountains, and I know things about travelling in high places. I also said that before we ever climbed."

"Oh."

With his meagre portion of stew in his belly, and the permission of Boromir still ringing in his ears, Frodo drifted off to sleep. Through closed eyelids, he could still see the flames flickering, and hoped that if they died before the morning, the fellowship would not join them.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter :) I am much happier with it than I was with the last one.**

 **Please do leave a review if you can, and have a good day :)**


	19. Chapter 19: The Hearts of Guardians

**Thank you all for your responses to last chapter! I hope you enjoy this one, too. As a head's up, this chapter touches again on Bragi's backstory. Most is self-explanatory (I hope), but for any of you who haven't read** ** _Strangers_** **(or those for whom it has been a while) the account of it can be found in Chapter 103 of** ** _Strangers Like Me._**

 **Now, please forgive my mistakes.**

 **Read, enjoy and review!**

 **Chapter Nineteen # The Hearts of Guardians #**

No matter what that elf from the havens said, or how often he muttered about 'denial', Soren knew that their young friends had not betrayed them. He knew all about familial betrayal, and this did not fit the bill.

As he rode, hand on sword and eye on the crown prince, Soren's mind ran back to his own twenty-ninth year. It was a far simpler time, when royals had been but acquaintances, and he had been the happy child of a minor lady and her merchant husband. His father had travelled all the way to the Iron Hills, and Soren had not seen him for almost a year. But Ragan had promised that when he got back, he would take Soren to the Training Halls for the very first time. Up until then, Soren had only been allowed to practise fighting in the children's arena.

His father had promised to come back with a real sword, and he did. But he also came back with a little boy. It was a tiny child, not even as tall as Soren (who had been a ridiculously small child) with wide, frightened eyes that looked almost purple, and weird white hair cut very short. Soren had not been woken when Ragan returned in the night, and so he was not introduced to the strange boy until the next morning.

 _"This," Ragan said, putting a large hand on the child's shoulder. "Is Bragi."_

 _Soren peered down from his father's hip, staring quizzically at the boy. "Why's he here?"_

 _"He's going to be living with us for a while, as my ward," explained Ragan slowly. "Isn't that right, Bragi?"_

 _Bragi looked up so quickly Soren did not see him move, and his eyes grew so wide that Soren thought they might pop out. Bragi nodded, twice, and then stuck his thumb in his mouth and hung his head. Ragan's hand squeezed the boy's shoulder gently and gave a sad smile._

 _Soren frowned. "What's a ward?" A sudden, awful thought made him gasp. "Ada, you didn't just go and replace me, did you?"_

 _"No, no, mizimith," Ragan murmured, shaking his head and clicking his tongue, before kissing Soren on the nose. "No, Bragi is here because his family can't look after him anymore, so I am going to."_

 _"Why you?" asked Soren suspiciously, narrowing his eyes at the boy. He had been without his father for eleven whole months – if this Bragi was going to steal Adad's affection, things would not go well. To Soren's surprise, the boy cringed at his gaze, and his strange violet eyes sparkled with tears._

 _"Because I said so," murmured Ragan. "I shall tell you more when you are older."_

 _Soren paused, looking from the tearful boy to his father. "Is, is it a bad scary reason, Ada?"_

 _"Some of it." Ragan nodded. "But now is a time to put the bad and the scary behind us. I want you to treat Bragi like a brother, Soren. He is part of our family, now."_

 _"Hm…" Soren pinched the air beneath his chin, mimicking his father's thoughtful stroking of his beard. "I don't have one of those. How'd I do that?"_

 _Ragan snorted, and shook his head. "Think of how Framarr looks after you, Soren."_

 _Channelling his older cousin as well as he could, Soren did his very best to treat Bragi as a brother, but it did not seem that the other boy wanted to even be his friend. He would never, ever, talk to Soren, and just nodded and shook his head and stuck his thumb in his mouth. He hardly ever even looked Soren in the eyes. It made Soren feel like_ he _was a horrible person, and he did not like that at all._

 _Soren was_ not _a horrible person. Sometimes, he would catch Bragi playing with his toys, and he did not even tell him off! But when he tried to join in, Bragi would gasp and thrust the toys back at Soren, before running to hide behind_ Soren's _Amad's skirt. Soren would try and try to talk and play, but Bragi just did not seem to care._

 _Finally, about forever after the boy came home, Soren stomped into the kitchen and glared at his mother._

 _"I don't want Bragi here anymore."_

 _Turning away from the stove, Svana stared at him in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"_

 _"I don't want him to be here anymore," insisted Soren, ignoring the wobble of his lower lip. "He doesn't like me, and, and he just spends all the time with you and Ada but he doesn't like me, and I don't like it when he doesn't like me in my own house! I don't wanna be the odd one out and I don't want him to be here anymore."_

 _"Oh, Soren," Svana murmured, picking him clean up off the floor and popping him on the counter so he was at eye level with her. It did not do much for Soren's attempts at Big Boy seriousness. "He doesn't not like you."_

 _"He does so! He does so doesn't like me!"_

 _"Soren, I'm so proud of you."_

 _Well, that was not what he had been expecting. "Huh?"_

 _"You've tried so hard to make him welcome, I've seen you at it," she said, tucking his hair behind his ears. "I am so proud. I see how hard you try. But Bragi is not quite ready to be a brother yet."_

 _Soren frowned. "Why?"_

 _Svana took a deep breath. "Well, some bad things happened to him. Bad people tried to hurt him, and his Amad tried to help them, and not Bragi. Then the bad people took his Adad away forever, and his Amad said some nasty things and did not want him anymore."_

 _Choking in horror, Soren went very white, and his little hand tightened around his mother's wrist. "Ama, Ama,_ you _wouldn't, you-"_

 _"No, baby, never," she murmured, smiling sadly. "I will never, ever let anyone hurt you, and neither will your Ada. But Bragi's Amad was a bit different. Now, that means that Bragi is very scared and sad right now, and he does not understand much more than you do. He is not ready."_

 _"How can I make him ready?"_

 _Svana paused, and then smiled. "Soren, do you know how most dwarflings get new brothers?"_

 _He nodded. "Their Amads eat magic baby potions for dinner and their Adads do a dance, and then the baby grows in their Ama's belly."_

 _Svana grinned. "That's right. And the baby will be in the mother's belly for months and months, and it will not be ready to be a brother until it decides that it is ready. Then, it will let the mother know, and be born and become a brother. Bragi is not a baby, but he needs time to grow and learn and heal before he can be a brother. Let him decide when it is time. Let him come to you, Soren."_

So Soren had left Bragi alone, and waited very impatiently. Bragi had approached Soren two weeks later – two weeks that felt like an eternity to the young dwarfling, but two weeks that were a lifetime ago. Since then, there had been no better word than 'brothers' for the pair, and it had delighted Soren to no end when he discovered that Bragi was to be his _older_ brother. Soren quite enjoyed being the baby of his extended family.

But over the years, Soren had learnt every detail about the betrayal that brought Bragi to his door. Fury still broiled in his stomach at the way Bragi's 'mother' Mygga had tried to sell him to the Old Ways followers, and the hatred rose up his throat at the knowledge she then screamed that the child was a curse when Ragan returned him to her. The words that he had learnt from both Ragan and Bragi were scorched into Soren's heart.

 _"Your husband died to save your son, yet you think he is a curse?"_

 _"He's spawn of the dark lords, he is a devil!" shrieked the woman. "Take him lord, I beg you, leave him in the woods for the beasts if you are too afraid to slay him yourself!"_

Ragan had later said he spared her life only out of pity for the children hiding behind her skirts.

A mother betraying her young son caused a burning pain and fury that scarred all those who cared about the family. Not drawn faces of concern for her well-being.

A family betrayal had then struck Soren himself, not a quarter of a century ago. He could still remember the sickening horror he had felt when he discovered that his cousin, Framarr, had been one of the traitors to Thorin Oakenshield. He remembered the agony of knowing that the dwarf who taught him how to fix bandages and hunt game had murdered little Frodo's parents in front of him and slaughtered innocent hobbits in an attempt to torture and kill Fíli, Kíli and their companions.

Soren remembered the empty shell that was left behind when Framarr admitted proudly, desperately, to kidnapping Fíli and Paladin and Gimli and little five-year-old Pippin. He remembered the shame and the rage and the anguish of thinking that Fíli and Paladin were dead, because of Framarr.

He remembered how he felt no guilt in denouncing Framarr forever.

The betrayal of a cousin to cousin, and of subject to lord and king, sent knives into the organs of those it touched, and turned the world upside down and inside out. It caused years of torment and fury, but not a sorrowful understanding that one would do the same thing in their shoes.

Soren knew all about familial betrayals.

This was not one of them.

There was no malice in the theft of the ring. No malice, no greed – he was sure of it. There was less pain. He knew that the others could not see that, but it was true. The pain would be much worse if the conspiracy was born of ill-intent.

As the light faded out entirely, Thorin called a halt from the head of the group. It had been decided that riding in the dark was too dangerous – they may well miss signs of the conspiracy's tracks.

They lit no fires, and it was hardly a merry campsite. Discussions and arguments were thrown around the group as to which way the conspiracy would have most likely gone, and whether they should head for the gap of Rohan or the pass of Caradhras.

"Or even the mines of Moria," Nori reminded them with a scowl. "Damn kids heard enough of Balin's reports to know it was an option."

Thorin swore, loudly. "I had not thought of that."

Soren let the others debate freely. He knew that there was nothing, if anything, that he could say that the others would not know, and know better.

Instead, he sat on the outskirts of the group, keeping watch as best he could on the surrounding lands. Before long, he was joined by Bragi and Ehren.

"Well," sighed Ehren, "if this isn't a barrel of frogs in a tea room I don't know what is."

"It isn't exactly ideal," admitted Bragi. "I wish we could help more with the decision, but I do not think we have any other insight to give."

"We don't," Soren said. "I call them cousins, and I would consider myself close to each of the barmpots, but I cannot say I know them better than Fíli or the others."

"So, we sit here as useless lumps," finished Ehren sadly.

"No." Soren smacked his friend on the back of the head. "We're not here for decision making, and we've helped as best we can, in that regard. So we sit here and do our jobs. Or at least, Bragi and I do. We didn't lose our charges."

"Right!" Ehren pointed his finger in Soren's face. "Right, let's get this straight, Bilbo _told_ me I didn't have to go on the stupid waltz into the woodland with Frodo, and I'd like to see you keep track of the slippery beggar for the whole damn day! You got the easy prince. Bragi's stuck with Kíli 'Walkabout' Baggins, and I've got the sneakiest hobbit since Bilbo."

"Well, you _had_ the sneakiest hobbit since Bilbo," added Soren, a smile twitching below his moustache. It was not a funny situation, but teasing Ehren always lifted his mood.

"But he does have a point." Bragi smiled wryly, and dug Soren in the ribs. "You have the easiest charge."

Soren considered this for a moment, glanced at Fíli, who as if on cue, was walking over with his brother. "That is true."

"What's true?" asked Kíli tiredly. There was a hint of longing in his voice, and Soren grinned.

"I have the easiest job of the three of us," he gestured to Bragi and Ehren. "Fíli's the easiest prince to babysit."

Fíli snorted, though his smile did not reach his eyes, and Kíli gave half a grin. The princes sat down, looking as though they had not slept in months.

"You all have the worst jobs I can imagine," Kíli sighed. "I don't know how you stick with us."

"What are you talking about?" Soren cried, shoving the stupid dwarf's arm. "We have the best jobs in the world!"

"We get paid to spend time with our closest friends," Bragi pointed out.

"And to travel, expenses paid, across the world," added Ehren, waving his share of jerky in the air. "This is coming out of your pocket, dear prince, not mine."

"Not to mention the fact that it's never dull," finished Soren.

Kíli snorted humourlessly. "No, it's just life-threatening."

After a moment, Bragi asked, "So, which way are we going?"

"Not sure yet." Fíli rubbed his beard. "They are considering splitting up."

"Sensible." Ehren nodded.

A spasm of pain passed over Kíli's face, and Soren pretended not to see. Instead, he added calmly, "But not ideal."

Ehren made an unconvinced sort of hum in the back of his throat, and the others looked at him. "I mean, I worry that Dís is right. Such a large group may draw unfriendly eyes, and bring more attention on the young'uns than they would otherwise."

"Or we will provide a distraction, as Gandalf said," countered Bragi. "For all the enemy know, we are all simply travelling back to Erebor."

"Aye, but splitting up could help us not get stabbed. I'm happy enough to be a decoy, but I'd prefer to be one with my head intact."

"See?" said Kíli glumly. "Worst job in the world."

Ehren grimaced. "Uh, no, that's not what I meant." For a moment, he paused, and then he said, "I mean, you need to stop being such a Dori-downer, Kíli. I get it, this whole situation is as much fun as a hungry warg, and we're all terrified out of our minds that our wee cousins might just get themselves hurt and damn the entire world. I'm not even being sarcastic, I mean it. But you need to snap out of this moping, or more people are going to get hurt."

Soren's eyebrows flew all the way up to his hairline and he stared at Kíli, whose mouth had dropped open. To his relief, there was no anger on Kíli's face – only surprise, and more than a little sorrow. Then, the young prince took a deep breath and nodded.

"You're right." He straightened his shoulders and shook his hair from his shoulders. "Time to grow up. Even if you are as tactful as an ass with fleas."

Ehren grinned sheepishly, and Soren could see his relief at Kíli's reaction.

Fíli, too, seemed relieved that his brother had not taken offense, but he also looked even wearier than ever.

Smiling sadly, Soren swatted Fíli's shoulder. "That goes for you too, my friend," he murmured, too low for the others to hear, and waited for Fíli to meet his eyes. "To worry for them is in your nature, but you know how to put that away, for now. They need you to be the warrior, now. We all do. Anything less puts everyone at risk."

Rubbing his reddened eyes, Fíli nodded. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Do not be sorry," ordered Soren. "Just be strong."

Slowly, Fíli nodded. "Right. Right." Then he rolled his neck and dragged his hair up into a ponytail. His jaw set into a look that Soren knew all too well. It was a hardened look. A warrior's look. Then, he smiled, grimly. "Thanks," he murmured. "For having my back."

Soren shrugged and smiled. "Always will."

For the rest of the night, Soren did what he could to raise the groups' spirits. It was his job, after all. There was more to bodyguarding than keeping your charge from harm, especially when they were as dear to you as blood kin. It was the bodyguard's duty to protect their charge's mind – affirm their decisions and steer them from disaster, warn them when to raise their guard, and help keep their spirit strong even when the odds seemed unconquerable. Especially when the odds seemed unconquerable.

He did not know if they would reach Frodo and his companions, or if they would make it back to Erebor in one piece. What Soren did know was that he and Bragi, and even Ehren, would be there with their charges – their friends, their kin – until the bitterest of ends.

Because Soren knew all about familial betrayals. And he knew that he would never commit one.

* * *

The most important part of being the best friend of a fiercely independent female warrior hobbit was protecting her without making a big deal about it.

Bróin knew that there were some things that Nelly could not do as easily as dwarves could. She did not need a leg up, but she could do with shielding from the unrelenting cold, and she would need someone to make sure she did not slip from sleep into unconsciousness.

So Bróin did not sleep that night. Instead, he spent the dark, cold hours with his arm around Nelly's shoulders, and his other hand resting on Merry's wrist. The whole company were snuggled up close to each other, and close to the wolves, too, and as he watched the fire slowly dwindle, Bróin knew that without their furry companions, the hobbits, and perhaps even the men, would have perished.

The thought made his guts tie themselves in knots, and he wiggled his cold fingers to check that they were just numb, and that Merry's heart was still beating.

The hobbit's breathing was stronger and deeper now than it had been, and he was bundled in 'spare' cloaks and nestled between Denahi and Koda before Boromir would let him sleep again. It had made Bróin all the more grateful that Boromir was here. If Bróin had found Merry cold and white and unmoving the snow, he would not have known what to do. If Merry had died –

Bróin shuddered, and tried to shrink back into his cloak. His coat was tucked over Pippin's knees, and he missed it, but he knew that he would survive the snow either way. His suffering was infinitely better than Pippin dying. Boromir and Aragorn were both shivering, having leant inner cloaks to the hobbits, but Gimli was simply dozing on the other end of the line of hobbits, his coat over Frodo's knees, and cloak over Sam. The older dwarf's nose and ears were very red, but Odo was lying against his back, sheltering him from the wind, and given that he was decades closer to adulthood than Bróin, he was not suffering so much.

Legolas did not seem to be suffering at all. At first, he had paced the front of the cave gracefully, as if he had not a care in the world. He had only sat down when Aragorn murmured something to him in elvish. Whatever he had said, Bróin was glad for it, for when Legolas resumed his place beside Aragorn the wind had less routes to Bróin and the hobbits.

By Mahal, it was cold.

 _"That's your trouble, Bróin,"_ sighed his mother's voice in his mind. _"You think you're all grown up, but you're not, and whether or not you like it there are things your body simply cannot do yet."_

It had been five years ago that she had said that to him, but Bróin found he could not remember why. He sighed. The fire was dying, but they had no more wood. He had tossed on the last twig half an hour ago. Without the light, it was getting harder to keep his eyes open.

But he had to. He had the most important watch of all – Bróin had to watch the hobbits. Make sure they were breathing. A night without sleep would not kill him, nor even slow him much. He would not let it, not when the risks were so high.

With a snore, Boromir shifted in his sleep, and a gust of wind cracked in like a whip, lashing out what remained of the fire. Gasping in dismay, the young dwarf carefully moved his arm off of Nelly and lunged for the fire, his hands lingering over the hot coals as he tried to figure out what to do. Morning was still hours off, he had to keep the fellowship warm –

Desperately, Bróin blew on the coals, heart stuttering as their edges glowed. "Please," he whispered, stoking them with his fingers. He could not tell if they burnt from hot or cold. "Please, please, please!"

A slight flame began, but not matter how Bróin pushed the charred wood or how many times he threw sparks down with his flint and tinderbox, it would not grow, and in a matter of minutes there was not even the glow of a distant flame.

"No," he whispered, but his words did nothing other than cloud the air. " _Dammit_!"

Already, Bróin could feel how much colder it was getting, and the dark did not help either. He glanced over at the hobbits, and saw Nelly and Pippin begin to shiver again.

"Think, think, think!" he growled under his breath, looking around desperately for any more fuel. He could burn his clothes, or his food, but that would be counterproductive. He had not brought anything more than he needed, there was no surplus so spare.

Maybe he could use the coals and ashes themselves? They were still hot. He heard Merry moan in his sleep, and then Bróin scrambled to his bag, looking desperately for a bag of some sort that he could throw them into, but then his hand fell on something else and he paused.

His water bottles.

He paused for a long moment – too long a moment, heat and time were wasting. Seizing the two skeins, he crawled to the fire and buried them in the ashes. The tough leather did not burn, though an odd smell was given out.

 _Not the traditional hot water bottle,_ he thought, _but desperate times…_

Bróin only knew that time was passing by counting Merry's heartbeats. The hobbit's wrist was getting a little cold, so Bróin tucked it up under the wolf, but kept his own two fingers in place no matter how awkward the positioning was. Then he looked back at Nelly. Her nose and ears were bright red, but the rest of her face was pale, and even in sleep her mouth was drawn into a straight line. She had never much liked the cold.

When he thought they might have caught some heat, Bróin reached for the bottles, only to cry out softly in dismay when he felt how cold they were. The ashes, too, were little warmer than the snow now. His eyes prickled with angry tears, but Bróin took a deep breath.

No, he could not lose his cool. Could not prove that he was too young for this – he had to act Frodo's age, not his own.

Besides, if he started crying like a baby now, that would only make life more difficult for the others. Instead, he threw the bottles back into his bag, dusting his belongings with ash, and returned to Nelly's side. She stirred as he sat down, her eyes opening slightly.

"Bro?" she whispered, her voice cracking in the cold.

"Aye, it's just me," he replied, wrapping his arm around her again. "You cold?"

She sighed and nodded, leaning against his chest. "You're warm."

He chuckled quietly. "Glad you think so." _Glad one of us does_.

"'s it morning?"

"No, we've got a while yet." Bróin sighed. "Go back to sleep, Nell."

"Mm, alright," she mumbled, and within a few moments her breath was slow and even again.

Bróin stared right to the end of the line, where Sam was sleeping beside Gimli. It seemed that at some point of the night, the hobbit had begun to use the dwarf's arm as a pillow, and he was shifting and snuffling uncomfortably in his sleep.

 _Good,_ thought Bróin, _easy to check he's doing alright._

His gaze moved onto Frodo, whose back was pressed against Sam's and arms had slung around Pippin. The young Baggins was breathing – his chest was moving up and down, and Pippin's hair danced around his forehead at every breath. Fíli's wolf, Sokka, was lying on their legs, and Sitka was by their heads. Denahi was at Pippin's back, separating him slightly from Merry, Nelly and Bróin.

Pippin was snuggled up against Frodo, and if the Baggins' position was accidental, the Took's was surely not. His face was half-hidden in Frodo's chest and his whole body was curled up in a little ball. One hand was wrapped in Frodo's cloak. The other reached under Denahi's chin, to rest against Merry's neck. He was frowning, deeply, but his breathing was also easy enough to spot.

Merry's breathing was a little harder to see, but it was still stronger than it had been, and Bróin could feel Nelly's chest rising and falling beneath his arm.

Gimli was snoring, so there was no need to worry about him.

The two men were pale, and very still, but like Pippin they were breathing deeply and often. Bróin could not tell if the elf was awake or asleep, but he was breathing, at least. Bróin was starting to get a headache from squinting through the dark. Even a dwarf might have trouble seeing such subtle movements in the blackness.

He let his head slide down to rest on Nelly's, and let his eyes close for a moment. But just a moment. Then he forced them open again, and when he had counted six hundred breaths, he looked up and checked each of his companions again.

Finally, a little light began to seep in from outside, and the others began to stir. Aragorn was the first to wake, and he shuddered as he sat up. Snow had fallen against his back all night, by the looks of it, but despite his pallor his eyes were sharp.

"When did the fire die?" he asked when he saw Bróin awake. His voice has huskier than usual.

"Around two hours past midnight, I would guess," said Bróin, pausing to yawn. "Without a watch, it was hard to say."

Dusting snow from his shoulders, Aragorn frowned. "You did not stay up all the night?"

Bróin shrugged. "No one stopped breathing."

Pausing with his arm still in the air, Aragorn stared at the dwarf with a strange look that Bróin hoped was not pity. "You did not have to do that."

Bróin kept his gaze steely as he stared back. "Everyone is breathing."

After a lingering moment, Aragorn bowed his head. "Very well. Thank you, Bróin."

Bróin nodded once, sharply, before pausing and smiling wearily. "You're welcome."

Staring out at the sky that was slowly turning a lighter shade of grey, Aragorn rubbed his beard. "We should wake the others. We must leave, and the sooner the better."

"Aye, I agree with that," muttered Bróin, shaking Nelly. "Up and at 'em, Nell."

She groaned and stretched, mumbling, "Wake Pippin first!"

Snorting, Bróin dug her in the ribs. "Up." Then, leaning over, he tapped Merry and Pippin on the nose each, and called, "Up, all of you. Frodo, Sam, Gimli, wake up." Mumbles and groans were all that replied. The dwarf rolled his eyes at Aragorn, who was rousing Boromir, and yelled, "Breakfast!"

Immediately eyes opened and folk scrambled upright, albeit slower than they usually did.

"Wha's for breakfast?" slurred Pippin, looking utterly bedraggled.

"Snow," replied Bróin. "And some slightly stale bread."

"You can keep the snow," said Merry with a shudder. Bróin was glad to hear that there was a little more strength in his voice, though it still rasped slightly. "It's cold enough as it is."

"And you're hogging all the blankets," Pippin commented, though Bróin could see his hand tightening around Merry's sleeve. "I agree with Merry. No snow for me, please."

"You will have to face the snow, whether you eat it or not," said Legolas, who had risen when Bróin was not looking. He was standing by the mouth of the cave, staring out. "There is a drift over our path taller than even Aragorn."

Bróin's heart sank, at he was not the only one. The hobbits let out a chorus of dismay.

"How will we get down?" cried Frodo.

Boromir stood, and joined Legolas at the entrance, peering out at the snowdrift. "Curse this mountain," he spat. "It does not want us to reach the ground alive."

Behind him, Bróin heard Sam mutter, "Oughn't we leave the cursing until we're _off_ the mountain?"

"Well, we shall have to dig," continued the man. "Aragorn, I think that between you and I we may forge a path?"

Seeing no other choice, they all shared a miserable breakfast together in the cave, before the men and three of the wolves set out into the sea of snow. The prancing elf princess, who of _course_ could walk atop the snow itself, went ahead of them, guiding Aragorn and Boromir in case they tunnelled right off the mountain.

And the dwarves and hobbits waited.

And waited.

Bróin yawned, and leant against the back of the cave. Catching sight of him, Frodo slipped over, and spoke quietly, so as not to alert the others. "Are you alright?"

"Me? Why wouldn't I be?" Bróin frowned. "At least I am no worse than any of you."

Frodo was not so easily fooled. He was Bilbo's nephew, after all. "You didn't sleep last night." It was not a question.

Bróin shrugged. "I'll be fine."

"Take a nap," Frodo suggested, and his eyes were burning with sympathy. "I will make sure no one stops breathing."

Bróin breathed in sharply and wished that he had not – cold air tore down his nose like a knife. He rolled up his nose, almost sneezed, and then recovered, staring at the hobbit. "You heard that."

Frodo nodded sombrely. "I was already awake. I did not realise you were until Aragorn spoke, or I would have joined you."

For a moment, a sudden thought darted into Bróin's mind – a thought he had been ignoring all night.

 _What if_ I _stop breathing?_

But no. He was a dwarf. The cold could not kill him so easily, and his hobbits would never allow it anyway.

"Are you sure?" he murmured, glancing around the cave. "I should be doing, something…"

"We are waiting," sighed Frodo. "And about as useful as shoes in the Shire. Get some sleep while you can, Bro."

"Alright, Frodo," Bróin replied, smiling wearily. He slid down into a sitting position against the wall and dropped his head onto his knees. Exhaustion was turning his limbs to lead now that he allowed it to, and his eyes felt as though they would never open again.

It was so cold.

Vaguely, he heard someone call him, and he tried to stir, but then a hand rested on his shoulder and he heard Frodo's voice. "Let him sleep. No, I mean it Nell. Why? Because I said so, Pippin, hush up…"

As if someone was closing a door, Frodo's voice grew quieter, and Bróin was sucked down into a sleep where he almost felt warm.

All too soon, Frodo shook him awake.

"The others are back," he said, and Bróin felt something slip to the floor beside him.

He frowned and sat up, allowing three cloaks and a coat to fall to the floor. "Where did these come from?"

"No idea," said Frodo. "I'll keep that one for you." He swiped up a cloak that Bróin recognised as Gimli's, and then Pippin and Sam wordlessly picked up the other coat and cloak and put them on themselves.

"Did you know," said Pippin, as he slipped on Bróin's coat and replaced his cloak on top, "that you lose more heat when you sleep?"

"'s that so?" Bróin grinned slowly, and Pippin nodded.

"Aye, it is."

It warmed Bróin's stomach that they took the cloaks back, and that they made such a small deal of things. He forgot, sometimes, that the courtesy he extended Nelly was given to him by all his hobbit cousins.

"We've forged a good a path as we may, but it has fallen in in places," sighed Aragorn. "It would be safer if the little folk ride."

"Righty-ho," Bróin declared around a yawn, "let's go."

"There is just one more thing," said Boromir, and he sounded rather awkward. "I do not think that Denahi should carry Merry down the mountain."

Bróin's stomach flipped over, and he looked quickly at Merry and his wolf. Denahi bared his teeth and growled, his hackles raising, while Merry put his hand on Denahi's shoulder.

"Why?" he demanded.

"There is no denying that he is a strong and powerful beast, but surely it is wiser for him to conserve his strength for ground that is better suited to him." Aragorn's voice was very placating, and Bróin saw Merry slump a little.

"I," he paused, then sighed. "Should I ride Kanna?"

Denahi whined sadly, nestling at Merry's nose. The hobbit wrapped his arms around the wolf's neck and kissed his ears, but shook his head.

"I will carry you," said Boromir. "It will be faster, and safer. I will be able to make sure you do not slip back into the Cold Sleep." Merry sighed, and then nodded. "We will go first. Get on my back – I will need my arms."

Soon, they were following Boromir down the mountain. Denahi rode just in front of Bróin, with his tail between his legs and his head hanging down low. Bróin shuddered, staring around at the huge walls of snow either side of him. Well, walls were not really an accurate term. What with the wind throwing loose snow down upon them and the foot or snow that the wolves still had to plough through, it was more like being in a poorly constructed blanket fort, with the fear of a dozen hard books falling onto your head when they failed at weighting it down.

To his amazement, they travelled down the mountain path without much incident. In fact, after a few hours of peace, the arrived at a bend, around which there was but an inch of snow. Bróin cried out in relief as Nyla padded out into the clear. They were still a good deal up the mountain, maybe two or three hours from its base, but the air was a little warmer and clearer. They were safe.

But as Aragorn and Gimli, who had taken up the rear, approached the bend, there was a great rumble, and a great pile of snow rushed down the mountain and swallowed them whole.

With cries of dismay, the fellowship darted back, but almost immediately the man, dwarf and pony remerged. Odo charged through the snow and shook himself so hard that Gimli fell off, landing on his backside by Bróin's feet with snow stuck to his beard and wide, white eyes.

Bróin could not help it.

He laughed.

Scowling, Gimli twisted around and shook his fist at the mountain. "We're leaving, you stupid lump of rock, leave us alone!"

"Shh!" Sam gasped, and Bróin rolled his eyes.

"Don't be so supsersti-"

"No!" Sam shook his head and pointed further down the mountain. " _Look!"_

Bróin looked down, and felt as though he had been punched in the throat. "Oh, no…"

Moving closer and closer towards the base of the mountain was what looked like a swarm of flies, driving down from the north. Within hours, they would reach the mouth of the mountain pass.

"Orcs," cried Legolas softly. "At least three dozen, and the same number of wargs!"

"We must move," whispered Aragorn hoarsely, "now, if we are not to be trapped on this cursed hill!"

"Look!" gasped Nelly, sounding the slight quake in her voice betraying her fear. He followed her finger a little further north east, at a group moving towards the orcs. He squinted at them, but he could make out little more than a blur.

Then Legolas said something in elvish, a phrase that Bróin had heard Bilbo mutter at burnt cooking. " _Amarth faeg!_ It is Mithrandir, and your people."

"What?" Merry cried, leaning out from Boromir's arms to gaze at the sights below. Bróin's heart began to pound against his ribs. "They wouldn't, it's too risky!"

"Go," Aragorn urged them, crouching low as he began to buffet the hobbits further down the mountain. "Go! They can care for themselves, but we must run, or we will be slaughtered by the night's end! If we hurry we may reach the ground before the orcs spy us."

"Wonderful," muttered Boromir, his eyes fixed on the orcs. "Where are we running?"

"Moria," said Frodo, his voice firm as he dug his heels into Sitka's flank and urged him onward. "We have not time to fly anywhere else."

"That's true," growled Boromir in frustration.

Denahi let out a frustrated whine and leapt at the man, pushing him backwards with one great paw and seizing Merry's collar with gentle teeth. Boromir released the hobbit instantly. For a moment, Merry hung from the wolf's mouth like a puppy's favourite toy, and Bróin laughed. Then, Merry quickly disengaged the wolf's teeth and slid onto his back.

"Let's go," he said.

And they ran.

 **And we're off! I hope you enjoyed that chapter, I certainly enjoyed writing it. I would be really excited to know what you guys think will happen next, or what you think of the story so far, so if you have the time and inclination to leave a review I would be really grateful!**

 **Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you have a good day :)**


	20. Chapter 20: A Sacrifice to Save You

**Hello again. As ever, thanks to those who read and reviewed, and welcome to any newbies. I hope that you all enjoy this chapter, but a slight warning that it there is a rather gory moment at one point (just in case you're squeamish)**

 **Please forgive any mistakes, as always, and please Read, Enjoy and Review.**

 **Chapter Twenty # A Sacrifice to Save You #**

The wind whipped Frodo's face like a thousand lashes as Sitka tore down the mountain. Reaching the base before the orcs could see them had looked impossible until the wolf that bore him had skidded to a halt, given out a soft whine, and then careened off the side of the cliff.

At least, that was what Frodo had thought was happening, but in fact Sitka had found a winding semblance to a trail that cut off the last league or so of their northward path. Not only did it stop them from having to double back on themselves to go further south, but given the curve of the mountain, it shielded them from view from the North. Odo struggled slightly, but the stubbornness of Gimli's pony was winning out, and he trotted down as fast as his little legs could manage. Glóin had always said that the beast was surely half goat.

For the men, it proved more difficult, but both were agile enough to find the crags and footholds needed to descend. Despite a few wobbles, their feet failed to falter, and though they did not share the grace of Legolas, both Aragorn and Boromir reached the flat ground beneath the mountain mere seconds after the others.

"We cannot afford to linger," said Legolas, running on with a sympathetic smile as Boromir leant against the stone for a moment, clutching his side.

The man let out a groan-like growl of annoyance and glared over his shoulder, but then he began to run again. Frodo was impressed – the man's fatigue was etched into his face, yet he showed no sign of stopping.

Not that they had a choice.

Silent save for their footfalls and laboured breaths, the fellowship sped south as fast as the path would allow. At times, they were forced to slow for the wolves to seek a clearer road, but for the most part the creatures wound ways through trees and bracken that even Aragorn would have trouble detecting. Given that he and Merry shared most of the map knowledge between them, Frodo was leading, with Merry close behind.

Frodo was trying to keep an eye out for the subtle signs Balin and Thorin had told him lay near the gates of Moria, but it was hard to pay such close attention when every instinct screamed to fly as fast as maybe, and put as much distance as possible between him and the orcs, damning the destination.

But no – to damn the destination was to damn the entire company, so Frodo had to keep his mind sharp. He peered over his shoulder, hair whipping across his face, and made sure everyone was still with him.

 _When did I become the leader? I don't want to be the leader…_

He could have used Aragorn's help, but the man was lagging towards the back of the group – he was competing with running wolves, and barely keeping up. He and Boromir were falling further behind Nelly and Bróin by the minute. Even at a distance, Aragorn's face looked blank, and Boromir was stumbling far more often than usual.

They should not have to run – and they could not maintain this pace. Not for much longer. Frodo stroked Sitka's neck with his fist, drawing it back in the motion that meant slow down. Immediately, the wolf's long strides shortened, and he began to reduce his pace.

"Why are we stopping?" asked Merry, from his right.

"We're not," said Frodo. "Just slowing. We have yet some distance to go – it would be best to pace ourselves."

Merry nodded, and the rhythm of the group stumbled for a while, before falling into a pace that was a brisk walk for Aragorn and Boromir. Frodo let the men set the speed – he was tempted to go slower, but they seemed able to catch their breath as it was.

Unfortunately, it soon became impossible to travel so quickly, even with the will and strength of the men. By leaving the path, they had no clear route to follow, and as they drew further south, even the wolves began struggling to find a way. In some places, they had to pause for up to half an hour to work through low branches and thorn bushes taller than the hobbits.

When night fell, thick and fast, they had no choice but to rest, unable to fight on without light. They set watches of three at a time, but only Pippin caught more than an hour's restless sleep. As soon as the sky lightened a fraction, and the dwarves, elf and wolves could see a little, they began trying to move on, but it was slow work.

A horrifically nerve-wracking hour was spent just before noon, when they were trapped by rock, trees and briars on all sides and forced to double back almost a mile. By the time they found a way southward again, Frodo's heart was beating somewhere up in his throat. If the orcs were on a road, if his _family_ were on a road, either group could be upon them at any time. From what they had seen on the mountain, both groups were only hours behind – a day's ride at most – and if they had not faced the set-backs the fellowship had faced…

Finally, Frodo caught sight of something through the thick trees – the ripple of wind on black water.

 _"Apparently, a great, dark pool has grown before the gates," said Balin one cold night, smiling as the young hobbits around him leant in closer. "A black pool, in which dwelt several large serpents, if Lóni's eyes did not deceive him. We believe, at present, that the Sirannon has been dammed – by nature or by will we do not know – and flooded the valley. But, the gates are still reachable, and still visible only when touched by moon or star."_

"This way!" Frodo cried, his voice catching with relief. He nudged Sitka with his right knee to encourage him left, and the wolf bounded through with renewed vigour. They padded out onto a small stretch of dirt before the edge of the dark pool, and Frodo's breath caught in his throat.

He had seen sketches and maps of Moria and its gates before, but they had been drawn before the waters of the Sirannon filled the valley. The pool was maybe two hundred feet wide, and on the other side to the company lay what looked like a small pebble beach, maybe six-foot-wide, and the base of the mountain. Frodo's keen eyes quickly identified what Balin had taught him to look for – a section of smooth, blank rock, flanked by two large holly trees – the door.

They had made it.

And Frodo was terrified.

 _Fíli was lying in a hysterical Kíli's arms, an arrow in his throat and his eyes unseeing on the bank of a lake outside a mountain Frodo did not know._

This was the lake. This was the mountain.

He had tried so hard to convince himself that his nightmare was just a dream, that the visions that had haunted his sleep since Tom Bombadil's could not be true, but this sight – a sight he had never before seen in waking life – was the exact backdrop to Fíli's doom. The placement of the rocks, the jutting crags at the mountain's base, even the large pebbles on the bank of the lake – they were all familiar.

In his dream, Fíli had died here.

Hobbits had no powers of prophecy, surely, but Bombadil's house was odd, and if there was some magic in the air that had allowed him to see the future –

No. No, that could not be the future. Frodo had risked the world to make sure that would not be the future.

 _But Fíli may be coming anyway – they are following you._

Frodo's blood felt cold as Caradhras.

"At last!" Merry gasped, making Frodo jump as Denahi drew alongside him. Shivering lightly, Frodo dragged his eyes away from the scene before him to glance at Merry. To his surprise, a huge smile had broken out across his cousin's wan, weary face. After the disaster of Caradhras, such a smile almost warmed Frodo's heart to the place.

Almost.

"Let's just get inside," he muttered, channelling Thorin as best he could in an attempt to keep his voice calm and strong. The result was tinted with impatience, and Merry stared at him quizzically. Frodo just shook his head slightly, and urged Sitka forward.

To get to the door they would have to cross the water, but just to the left there was a narrow creek that did not look too deep. Taking a deep breath and raising his chin, Frodo led the group straight for it.

But the moment the wolf's foot touched the water, Sitka let out a snarl and drew it back up, backing away from the creek. Though his first thought was to dig his heel in a little tighter, Frodo had learnt to trust the wolves' instincts over the years. He leant forward, stroking Sitka's ear.

"What's wrong?" he murmured. "We must cross, Sitka, or we'll be trapped."

Whining, Sitka tossed his head and stepped back again, returning to the tree line before taking a running leap across the creak. The other wolves followed suit, refusing to touch the water, but the pony, elf and men had no choice but to wade through. The men pulled faces and slipped on slimy rocks, and Legolas stared at the ripples with morbid curiosity, but they all crossed without incident. Odo snorted, but kept his nose high in the air when Gimli patted his flank.

When they came to the other side, they all dismounted, and the wolves flopped down onto the damp ground, panting heavily. Boromir shook his head and brushed his hair from his face. "So, where are these doors?"

Trying to forget any trace of his nightmare, Frodo walked slowly to the two, tall holly trees, and placed his hand on the stone between them. "Here," he murmured. "They are here. But we cannot see them until they are touched by the light of moon or star."

"Of course we can't," said Legolas under his breath.

"Can we enter, without the light?" pressed Aragorn, striding to Frodo's side. "If we are forced to wait for nightfall we may receive company."

"Perhaps, if we had the password," Frodo pursed his lips and glanced at Merry. "Do you remember?"

Furrowing his brow, Merry stared at the mountain for a long moment, before sighing and hanging his head. "No."

Frodo cursed under his breath, but Boromir was not so quiet.

"What? We ran all this way, like rabbits from a wolfpack, only to be trapped for lack of a password? We would have had more chance if we aimed for the gap of Rohan." The man threw his small pack to the floor, and ran both hands through his hair.

"Not necessarily," said Merry, sighing and sitting down beside Denahi. "The password's the answer to a question – Balin was telling us about it. This door was built so that the dwarves could trade with the elves and men of Hollin, so the question is written in elvish, in Moon Runes on the door. Those who know the answer can get in."

"And how will we know the answer?"

Somewhere close by, a wolf howled, and the group's wolves leapt to their feet, hackles rising. Merry went pale, but answered nevertheless. "Balin said the questions were often subtle on doors like these. They were posed to look like statements or warnings, when they were actually riddles."

"Wonderful," growled Boromir. "There are wolves coming and we must wait for twinkling stars to show a riddle."

"Look, we're doing the best we can here," said Sam hotly, striding over with his chest puffed up. "So, you best be remembering that Frodo and Merry aren't fools! Mister Balin's told us hundreds of dwarvish riddles over the years, and they know thousands of hobbit ones besides. You can't expect them to just pick the right one out of thin air! This is the best hope we had, and we decided that on the mountain!"

Boromir turned to Sam, and though irritation still flickered in his eyes, his face softened. "I know, Sam. Do not mistake my frustration for anger at Frodo or Merry."

Before Sam could smile back, the strange wolf howled again, and the hairs on the back of Frodo's neck sprang up. It was not a wolf – that was the call of a warg.

And it was answered more howls.

Snarling and growling, the wolves of Erebor began to circle the bank, hemming the fellowship in closer and closer towards the trees, and the invisible door, like sheepdogs sensing a threat to their flock.

"Aragorn," Nelly asked, her voice deceptively light. "How far away would you say that those wargs are?"

The man pursed his lips and shook his head. "It is hard to say. They could be miles from here, yet they could also be much closer."

"Aye, that's what I thought." Nelly took a deep breath and squinted up at the sky. "So, it looks like it's about three hours past noon…" she trailed off, counting on her fingers. Then she sighed, and leant back against the mountain. "They could be here before nightfall, but they might not, and there's nowhere else to go. We're stuck."

"Well," sighed Pippin, "I suppose the others could catch up with us first. At least then we'd have reinforcements."

"No," snapped Frodo, his hands diving into his pockets as everyone turned to stare at him. He softened his tone. "I don't think I'm ready to see them again just yet. Do you?"

Pippin pouted, and slumped down against the wall. After a long moment, Frodo sighed and joined him.

Gimli cleared his throat, and spoke rather gruffly. "I've just had a thought."

"Exciting," said Bróin. "How are you coping with such a strange, new sensation?"

Ignoring Bombur's son, Gimli sighed and scratched Odo's ears. "We can't take you into the mines with us, can we?" The pony whickered, and began to snuffle the dwarf's beard. "There'll be stairs and thin ledges and all sorts – hard enough for those on two legs, and you're not quite as flexible as the wolves."

Frodo winced. Poor Gimli…

"But I can't just let you prance off with wargs at every turn," continued the dwarf, taking a deep breath and then turning to Legolas. "So – how much will it cost for you to do a fancy blessing on my pony?"

The elf raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"I want you to bless Odo, and I want you to do it now. I want you to make sure he gets home safely. So how much will it cost me?" said Gimli, planting his feet square on the ground and folding his arms across his chest.

Legolas smiled slightly. "It will cost you nothing."

"Oh?" Gimli raised his own eyebrows.

"Nothing," repeated Legolas. "We are friends, are we not? Even if we weren't, I would not put a price on the life of an innocent animal."

Despite himself, Frodo smiled slightly. Over the past few days the elf had been rather uptight, and not quite as friendly as he had been in the past. His bickering with Gimli had been harsher and less playful than usual – it was good to see that Legolas was thawing a little.

Holding onto that small piece of comfort with both hands, Frodo settled down to wait. At first, the day did not seem to want to wane at all. They removed what baggage Odo had carried and split it between them, sent the pony off into the woods to the south, and shared a cold meal together without the shadows seeming to shift an inch. But slowly, slowly, dark began to creep upon them.

At first, Frodo feared that it would make things worse – clouds were shifting through the sky, blanketing early stars as the sun sank low and dimmed the whole world. Twilight darkened, and he held his breath.

And then, Legolas cried out wordlessly, and pointed at the wall.

Frodo scrambled to his feet and whirled around, in time to see soft beams of moonlight shine on thin tendrils of silver in the stone.

Mithril. They had found it.

As if an invisible hand was painting with starlight, lines began to appear in the shape of a door, along with beautiful patterns that Frodo would have stared at for hours, if he was not so frantically trying to decipher the elvish letters above the door.

To his horror, they were not Sindarin characters – they were from an older time, and he could not read the lettering, let alone the words. He could not remember Balin saying anything about a different kind of elvish –

 _But of course Balin would not know,_ Frodo thought desperately, _Elvish is elvish is elvish, to Balin…_

The wolves began to whine uncomfortably, but Frodo could not heed them now.

Aragorn stepped forward, scratching his beard. " _Ennyn Durin Aran Moria: pedo mellon a minno._ The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter."

"Is that what it says?" asked Frodo quickly.

Aragorn nodded, glancing at the elf. "Does it not, Legolas?"

Legolas inclined his head, and a flood of relief warmed Frodo from nose to toe. At almost that exact moment, Merry gasped. "I remember! All we need say is –"

 _"Stop!"_

The warmth that had washed over Frodo mutated into the sensation of beetles, swarming through his veins and biting every inch of flesh they could find.

 _Bilbo._

"Oh, shit," whispered Bróin. "They've all come!"

Dreading what he would see, Frodo whirled around to stare across the lake. There were ponies and horses emerging from the trees, a little way south from where the fellowship had emerged, and at their head was Bilbo.

The older hobbit looked stricken. His face was lined and drawn, but there was a fury in his eyes that Frodo could see from this distance, and it knotted his stomach.

 _I'm sorry, Bilbo. I'm so sorry. This is for the best._

Swallowing, Frodo turned back to the door. "Mellon!"

The doors began to creak open, and Thorin's voice roared across the pool _. "Naidribi! Innikî, zû!"_

 _Stop! Return, now!_

Vaguely, Frodo was aware of those around him shifting uncomfortably, and he could not fight the urge to look over his shoulder at Thorin. He winced.

He had done it now.

Thorin's pony had two feet in the water, and the king looked ready to kill.

Their fury was just, and enduring. No matter how right Frodo was, their rage would persist, and there would be no place in the family for him upon return. His eyes flickered to Fíli, whose mouth was pressed into a thin, straight line, and whose eyes were unreadable. It was worth it.

If he could stop those visions, if Fíli could live, if Thorin would not fall before Erebor's gates, if Bilbo would not face the fires of doom, it would be worth it.

Frodo felt tears burning at the corners of his eyes, and so he squeezed them shut. Time to be brave now.

"You have been very brave," a loud, familiar voice called, and Gandalf dismounted, walking towards the very edge of the pool. "But it is time now, to hand over your task."

Frodo took a deep breath, swallowed hard. "Let's go."

Aragorn hesitated, his eyes on Gandalf. "I…"

The original conspiracy stared at him, their expressions just as grief-stricken as he guessed his must be, but then they each nodded, determination reigning.

Frodo took a step into the door.

And then the water exploded.

Screams, from every direction, terrified wolf howls, water spraying, splashing, the strangest cry Frodo had ever heard. Frodo spun around on the spot, his mouth dropping open at the sight before him. Terror seized him, but even as he backed away, dwarven training led his fingers to his sword hilt.

There was a monster in the water.

It had risen up when Thorin had charged his pony into the pool, and limbs like giant serpents were shooting towards the older group. Its head had only just breached the water, but it was facing the far shore. As Frodo watched, a tentacle wrapped around Thorin's pony, missing his uncle by a hair's breadth. Thorin fell from the pony as it was ripped into the air, and Frodo was not the only one who cried out.

"Thorin!"

As if drawn by the sound of his voice, the creature turned, creating a whirlpool around it. The next thing Frodo knew, something cold, slippery and deathly strong had wrapped twice around his chest. Within the span of a heartbeat he was been dragged backwards, through the air, unable to do anything but scream.

"No! _Frodo!"_

Writhing frantically, Frodo tried to use his sword, but his arms were bound to his sides and the angle was off. He was hanging in the air, hanging above a face like that of some monstrous spider, or one of the cave-fish Nori would scare them with as children. Its mouth was gaping.

Even as arrows from Kíli's bow struck the tentacle around him, it gave a huge spasm, and Frodo began to fall, down towards the mouth, towards the black water –

And then an arm was around his chest, snatching him clean from the air. As though it was the easiest thing in the world, Legolas leapt from tentacle to tentacle, with Frodo hanging over his arm like a kitten.

Stunned, Frodo watched the water fly beneath him, churned and frothy from the movements of the monster. His old fear of drowning was creeping up his throat, but he had no time for that now. Ducking a snake-like limb, Legolas sprang from another tentacle and landed gracefully on the beach. In the same moment he released Frodo, the elf turned and went for the creature with two long knives, drawing out its odd, echoing roar. As if in answer, a harsh, shrill horn sounded in the woods to the south.

The orcs – the orcs had caught them.

Frodo's heart sank as dozens of the foul creatures spilled out from the trees on the southern side of the pool, swarming towards his family with swords and bows and torches. Some stayed behind, and began to take aim at Frodo's group.

Before Frodo could even blink, Dwalin let out a battle cry to challenge the monster's, charging towards them with Ehren, Nori and Thorin at his heels. The wolves raced back across the creek, heading straight for the wargs with bared teeth and furious growls. Just like that, Frodo snapped into action, throwing his pack on in case he had to run, and joining the ranks that the other hobbits had created.

Aragorn, Boromir, and Merry were shooting at the orcs, so Frodo set his attention on the monster in the water. It seemed to have been distracted by the orcs, and though the last thing he wanted to do was draw its attention, Frodo joined Pippin in pelting it with rocks. The throwing knives of Nelly and Bróin were somewhat more effective.

"Run!" Thorin roared, though Frodo could not see his dwarven uncle anywhere. "Run, get into the mines!"

The monster was turning back towards them, and two very familiar battle cries pulled Frodo's gaze to the north side, and the creek. Gandalf was crossing it quickly, with Fíli and Kíli on his heels. The princes looked furious, and were aiming right for the creature in the water. Behind them ran Soren, Bragi and Bofin, and then Bilbo and Dís, but as soon as Frodo's aunt and uncle reached the water they turned, holding off the orcs that were squirming their way towards the crossing.

Beside him, Sam yelped, and Frodo turned in time to see his friend clutch his neck, and as an arrow shatter on the rock behind him.

"Get into the mines!" roared Gandalf, charging towards them with his staff raised.

"Not now," Nelly snarled, landing an axe into the back of the monster in the water. "We won't leave you in a fight –"

Frodo swung at a tentacle aiming his way, severing the end, but then something on the other side of the lake caught his eye – orc archers, taking aim. At the princes.

"Fíli!" he screamed, even as the arrows flew. "Get down!"

Soren knocked Fíli down as Kíli and Bragi ducked, and several arrows collided with the mountain. There did not seem to be enough hitting the rock, but Fíli was up and on his feet in a moment, and sent a grim smile at Frodo.

"Thanks," he called, throwing an axe at an orc on the other side of the lake. "Now _go!"_

"Not now!" cried Frodo, but his voice sounded so small.

"We'll hold them off, get over the mountains," Kíli replied, shooting at the foes across the pool. "Not the plan we had in mind, but it will do, if Gandalf's with you. Go."

"No, we can't!" Frodo shook his head frantically. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bofin trying to force Bróin into the mines.

"Get _off_ me Bofin, I've got to help!"

"Get inside, Bróin, just listen to me for once in your life!"

"Frodo!" Kíli yelled, his eyes flickering to the hobbit even as he fired arrow after arrow at the orcs. Beneath the anger, Frodo could see fear in Kíli's eyes. "Listen to me, get into the mountain. Go, _now!"_

"No-" Frodo's protest was drowned as Gandalf reached him, his old hand clamping down on Frodo's shoulder as he shoved the hobbit, none too gently, into the mines.

"All of you, now!" the wizard barked. Frodo was jostled further into the cave by the other hobbits, Gimli, Aragorn and Legolas, none of whom seemed to have a problem obeying Gandalf and Kíli.

Bróin, on the other hand, was being pushed in by his shorter and squatter older brother. Even amongst the chaos, Frodo was amazed that Bofin had pushed Bróin so far in.

"For the love of Mahal!" the older dwarf groaned, through gritted teeth. "Bróin, you-"

Too late, Frodo saw the monster's hideous face surge towards them. All he could do to warn the others was yell, but that was not enough as it collided with the mountain, and one of its tentacles wrapped around the first soul in reach.

"Bofin!" Bróin cried, suddenly scrambling to grab his brother as the older boy was torn away. "Bofin!"

Gandalf raised his staff, but before any spell could be cast, the stone beneath the creature cracked, and then rumbled. Nelly and Gimli darted forward to grab Bróin, but they needed Boromir and Aragorn to drag the thrashing dwarf away from the crumbling doorway.

"No," Frodo whispered, as he realised what was about to happen. He could hear Bofin screaming, and then the overwhelming sound of falling rocks.

"Run!" Gandalf ordered, and somehow Frodo obeyed, stumbling blindly into a dark that became absolute with a sickening thud.

"Let go of me! Let _go_ of me! Bofin!" Bróin's voice was higher than usual, and Frodo could hear him choking. "Bofin!"

There was no scream of reply. Already, the sounds of outside were muffled, frighteningly so. Frodo could see nothing, he could hear nothing except heavy breathing and sobs and Bróin –

"Gandalf," he choked, searching blindly for the wizard in the dark. "Gandalf, we must go back, we must help them!"

A dim, white light appeared at the end of the wizard's staff, illuminating an old, dusty entrance hall. And the haggard faces of Frodo's companions.

"We cannot go back," said Gandalf gravely, looking first at Frodo, then at the door. Frodo turned, letting out a small whimper at the sheer scale of the rock that fallen. Boulders and fragments had blocked them in, but they had to be several feet down the hall – it would take them hours, days, to move all that stone. The wizard turned back to Frodo, shadows flickering over his old face. "You cannot have thought your decision would be without consequence?"

 _I did not think this would be the consequence!_ Frodo wanted to scream. But he could hardly breathe, let alone gather the air to scream.

"You are fools." Gandalf's voice boomed in the cavernous space, anger and sorrow both evident in his tone. It bowed the heads of the conspiracy and the hunters alike. "Brave, stupid, fools."

The breath of quiet that followed was broken by a very odd noise – a noise Frodo had never heard before. He shivered, sweaty fingers shifting on his sword hilt, and turned in its direction. Bróin was standing a few feet away. Well, standing was not the right word. He was hanging, limp in the arms of Nelly and Gimli.

As Frodo watched, he shrugged them off, and stumbled forward to the stone wall, crashing down to his knees before a small rock. Nelly followed on tiptoes, her eyes flooding as Bróin reached out to the rock with trembling fingers.

Then Frodo heard the noise again. It was a garbled blend of a whimper and a sob and a groan, a helpless sound of regret and of _grief,_ grief and regret so deep it could not have come from Bróin, not Bróin –

And then Bróin keened, his whole body curling around that stone that was not a stone, and Frodo's eyes filled with tears.

He did not know what happened, but anything that could make Bróin cry, make him cry aloud…

"Bro?" Nelly whispered, placing a shaking hand on his shoulders. Then she gazed into his lap, and moaned, pushing her hand against her mouth.

Frodo was already running toward them when Nelly's knees buckled, and for once Bróin did not catch her. Instead, he just shook as she wrapped her arms around him, and hid her face in his hair.

"What is it?" Frodo asked, but his voice was so tight it did not even sound like his own. "What happened? Bróin?"

Bróin twisted his body and seized Nelly tightly, burying his face in her shoulder and sobbing like a child. Something tumbled from his lap and onto the floor, and he cringed and clutched her tighter.

Frodo barely heard his own scream as he watched Bofin's boot rock gently on the ground. The boot was bleeding. Leaking a dark stream of blood onto the floor. It was not empty.

Frodo's lungs refused to take in any more air. The world began to spin, and he stumbled down beside Nelly and Bróin. "I'm so sorry," he tried to say, but his voice was less than a whisper. "I'm sorry Bróin, I'm so sorry."

"What's going –" Pippin's question was interrupted by his own cry as he walked over, and Frodo looked up in time to see the youngest of the hobbits squeeze his eyes shut and turn away. "No, no, no –"

"Mahal," Merry whispered, his arms folding around Pippin. Unlike the Took, the Brandybuck seemed unable to tear his eyes from the boot. _From the foot._

Sam let out a groan, and then a yell, and smashed his foot into a nearby rock. Gimli cried out in horror, but quickly gained control over himself. As the older dwarf crouched down in front of Bróin, Frodo guessed that Gimli was only staying calm for their sake.

"Look at me," Gimli said gruffly, pulling Bróin by his short beard to force the dwarf to look at him. Then he cupped his hands on either side of Bróin's cheeks. "Look at me, lad. We don't know what happened, no, look at me, Bofin might live. You remember, you remember the story of the miner in the Blue Mountains, mmh? They found his arm, and days later found him alive and, well, not _well_ but he survived, didn't he? Don't you crumble on us now, lad. There are good fighters out there, and half decent healers."

As he said this, Legolas walked to the wall of rubble and pressed his hand against it, closing his eyes. He stayed like that for a long moment. "Your brother is alive. I can hear his cries. He lies closer to the others than to us – his face is free to the air. He lives, my friend."

"For how long?" Bróin asked, his voice trembling with hope, and with bitterness. "For how long, if he's lo- if he's – how long?"

The elf turned his face away. "That, I cannot say."

Frodo reached out for Sitka, only to remember that none of the wolves had entered with them. They had lost their fiercest companions, half their baggage, almost all their medical supplies…

Wiping his eyes and taking a deep breath, Frodo gazed up at Sam. "You're hurt?"

"Just a scratch," Sam said shakily, showing Frodo a small wound on his neck. To his relief, it was just a scratch. Sam had been very lucky. "Frodo, d'you, d'you think the others could be alright?" The question that he wanted to ask was 'Do you think Bofin could live?' and Frodo knew it.

"I don't know." Frodo closed his eyes, and began to rub Bróin's shoulder gently.

 _What have we done?_

 _What have we_ done?

 _What have I done?_

 **Well, I hope you enjoyed that chapter :D Tis a wee bit angsty, I suppose…**

 **So – who do you think will survive the Battle of Durin's Doors? The battle's only over for the fellowship, after all ;) I'd love to know what you think, even if you hated it, so please do let me know :D As a slight aside, I have noticed that the numbers of reviews have dwindled for a while, and I was wondering if this is due to the plot, the story quality, the (horrifically sporadic) updating schedule, busy readers, or something else? I am not trying to fish for reviews here (as my younger self would do. That's always embarrassing when I read old author's notes) - I simply want to know what I can do to make this story as great for my readers as it is for the writer.**

 **Thanks for reading, and have a good day :)**


	21. Chapter 21: Into the Deeper Darkness

**Thank you for the lovely response to the last chapter :D As I said, I didn't want to guilt anyone into reviewing or anything like that, I just wanted to see if there was anything that was putting people off, so without further ado, I hope you enjoy this new chapter, too.**

 **Heads up, we have a new Khuzdul word – buhel, which means 'friend of all friends' according to the Dwarrow Scholar :D**

 **As ever, please forgive any typos.**

 **Chapter Twenty-One # Into the Deeper Darkness #**

At first, Gimli was worried that they had lost Bróin. The lad was still so young, and finding a brother's severed foot could unhinge a grown dwarf, especially after such a fight. That monster – the thought of it sent chills down Gimli's spine. Were it not for the younger ones, he would probably be yelling himself. For several minutes, Bróin did not move – he just clung to Nelly with his eyes clouded and unblinking. Gimli knew that soon they would have to leave. Bróin needed time to understand and process what had just happened, but they did not have the time to give him.

But then Bombur's son took a deep breath, and wiped his tears on his sleeve in a motion that looked almost like a punch. He stood up so fast that the hobbits jumped, and then turned with blazing eyes to Gandalf.

"What," he growled, "did you just say?"

Gimli paused, confused. What had Gandalf just said? He had called them fools, but –

"You think we _didn't_ think about the consequences?" Bróin's voice rose to a shout before the wizard could reply. "Of course we did, the damned consequences are why we were here in the first place! We knew, we _knew_ that any one of us, or anyone else we loved could be hurt, or killed, we're not sheltered little lordlings playing war in Ada's office!"

Gandalf's eyes were widening, but his face was impassive as the stone, and that worried Gimli. He put a hand on Bróin's shoulder. "This isn't the time-"

Bróin let out a fierce laugh, and threw off Gimli's hand. "The time? No, it isn't, is it? Because we were supposed to be moving by now, we had a _plan._ But even though we had a plan, and even though we knew that things could go wrong we did not think _this_ would be a consequence because we did not think that you would be stupid enough to follow us the way you did!" Bróin's voice grew from a shout to a roar, and he thrust his pointed fist towards Gandalf. "What were you _thinking?_ Bringing a group of, what, twenty? How, _how_ would that be helpful for anyone other than the enemy? We knew we'd be followed, but we thought you'd be smart enough to split up, sneak about, keep secret like you swore was 'of vital importance!' Yet you did not. You thought that it would be better to waltz up with a group of _twenty_ and shout 'hello, here we are, all the lords and ladies of Erebor!' and point out _our_ location as well! If you weren't here the orcs would never have caught us, and none of this-" he gestured furiously to the fallen stone, "-would have happened! If you had just stopped and thought about it, we'd be well on our way now. But no. We were _not_ the ones who did not consider the consequences."

When the echo of his word shout died, and the others stood like stone in the silence, Bróin shifted his pack on his shoulders, checked the straps of his sword, and then strode right past Gandalf. The wizard did not move, and the young dwarf did not pause as he made his way up the stairs towards the deeper darkness.

After a moment and without a word, Nelly lifted her own bag from the floor behind her, and nimbly scrambled after him. She sent a half-fearful, half-furious glance at Gandalf on the way past, and finally the wizard turned.

"And where do you think you're going?"

Bróin spoke coldly over his shoulder. "To fulfil the quest." He looked deliberately away from Gandalf, meeting the eye of every other member of the fellowship. "We are not turning back now. And thanks to the 'great' choices of the wise, we have no time to rest tonight."

Before the younger dwarf had even finished speaking, Gimli began to climb the stairs. It was not to walk away from Gandalf as such, nor to get moving for moving's sake. Though Bróin was right, what he needed was his family's support, and their validation, and Gimli would show it the best way he could. It was the least he could do for a frightened young dwarf who had just found his brother's severed foot.

The hobbits seemed more hesitant to anger the wizard, but as Gimli walked, they too headed for the stairs. As he did a quick headcount, Gimli saw Pippin tug Merry's hand to tear his cousin's gaze from Bofin's foot.

 _Poor, poor Bofin,_ thought Gimli, his stomach churning. But he forced his mind away, with the hollow promise to himself that Bofur would care for his nephew.

"So, you simply challenge me and then leave? That does not seem very noble, Master Dwarf," said Gandalf, his voice as chilled as Bróin's.

The hobbits stopped in their tracks, even Nelly, and looked fearfully between Gandalf and Bróin. Gimli, too, held his breath. As much as he agreed with Bróin, he could understand some of Gandalf's logic, and more importantly he did not want to anger the wizard. Gandalf had not wanted this.

No one had wanted this.

Bróin turned around fully, and Gimli was thrown by the strength of his voice. "It was not a challenge, Master Wizard. It was a condemnation."

Gimli's heart began to beat uncomfortably fast.

Face still unreadable, Gandalf began to make his way up the stairs. The men and Legolas stood frozen below, gazing up in dismay as some force compelled Gimli and the hobbits to back away. Only Bróin remained, standing like a warrior's statue at the very top of the stairway. As the wizard drew nearer, Bróin's hands began to tremble, and when he crossed his arms his lip quaked instead. His eyes hurt to look at – they were so full of anger and agony, and Gimli had to look away.

But he looked quickly back when Gandalf stood before Bróin, and spoke, in a soft, jarringly gentle voice. "I am sorry if my words upset you, son of Bombur. As for the decision to ride as a group, it now does seem ill-advised. But, at the time, I thought it best. It seems that both our companies have taken ill-paths with good intentions."

Bróin's chin remained high, but he spoke, rather than shouted, his reply. "The only 'path' I regret was leaving like a thief in the night, but that could not be helped. We did what we had to do, and I stand by that."

"Even now?" Gandalf raised an eyebrow. "Now that there is battle again outside Moria's gates, and your own brother has been maimed in the fray?"

"Even now," Bróin agreed, his voice tight, but ringing true. "We did what we had to do, and will do it again now."

"Then why did you not run when you were instructed to, if you will set aside your feelings for this quest?" Gandalf said, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly.

"Hubris," Bróin spat, even as his shoulders slumped forward slightly – his guilty tell. Gimli's own heart sank slightly as he bowed his head. Hubris had indeed been what kept his axe outside until the last. "We thought we could hold our own. Help our kin. But we couldn't. The mistake will not be made again."

"I did not see hubris in Frodo's eyes," pointed out Gandalf.

Before Frodo could open his mouth, Bróin spoke for him. "Beginner's balk."

"What?" puzzled Boromir.

"The hesitation and bewilderment that fighters experience during their first real altercation," recited Merry glumly. "Made worse by the fear for comrades. Everyone insists that it'd never happen to them." He paused, and stared at his feet. "Everyone's wrong."

"We will do this," said Bróin, drawing the wizard's eyes back to him. "We'll do what we have to do."

"Then let me help you do it," replied Gandalf softly.

Confusion flickered across the warring emotions on Bróin's face. "What?"

"We cannot go back," Gandalf gestured to the fallen rocks. "So we must go on. I have been through Moria before, and I can guide you. I will not try to stop you, nor bear you back. I will help you onwards, until we reach the woods of Lothlorien. If I am not convinced by then of your ability to complete the quest, we can take council with the lady, and seek sanctuary in her halls until something may be done. Does that seem reasonable to you?"

Bróin hesitated for a long moment, and then finally tore his gaze from Gandalf to look to the others. Frodo nodded, and Bróin took a deep breath. "Alright. Thank you."

Gandalf inclined his head, and then crouched down, putting a hand on Bróin's shoulder and speaking so quietly Gimli almost missed the words. "Your bravery is admirable, my lad. You will have to keep it up, though. You will need it." Then the wizard stood up, and strode to the front of the group. "Let us go," he said. "And while we are at it, you can spell out your logic for me, if you have indeed 'thought this through'. Though take care not to speak of your final goal. We do not know who or what may be dwelling in this darkness."

* * *

The chaos of battle was nothing new to Fíli, but the presence of the creature in the water certainly put a spin on things. As it thrust its bulging body against the side of the mountain, Fíli noted that it looked almost like the strange, 'octopus' creatures sometimes found in books talking of the sea. When they were children, Kíli had always scoffed that it was a lie for the gullible reader, and that nothing could exist with so many legs.

This thing must have at least a dozen legs, maybe two, or more – it was hard to count with them flailing all over the place.

But these thoughts passed through Fíli's mind in a mere fraction of a second. He had no more time to spare for them. Bofin's screams were ear-splitting for a moment, but then they were swallowed by the sounds of battle, and that did not bode well for Bombur's oldest son. The wolves were all charging at the beast, and it was his turn to join them. He could hear Dís, Bilbo, Bofur and Nori crossing the creek to reach this bank, and reach Bofin, and Kíli and Bragi were already laying into the monster.

Fíli's heart skipped a beat at his brother dancing between the powerful tentacles, but he forced himself to check the other side of the lake before running to his brother's aid. The orcs were being pushed back, and now only Ehren, Thorin and Dwalin were left fighting them. Glorfindel, Ori, and Saradoc were all racing towards the creek, while Erestor, Vinca, Esme and Paladin were all shooting, two at the orcs and two at the monster.

Satisfied that everyone knew what they were doing, Fíli darted towards Kíli, but he stopped short as he realised that someone was missing. Where was Soren? He was not with Kíli and Bragi, but Fíli had not seen him with Bofin earlier.

There was no sign of Soren charging towards the orcs, or towards the monster, and Fíli was sure that he had not been close enough to duck into the mines with the others. He was not fording the creek, nor shooting his bow – he was nowhere.

Knowing he had but half a second more to muse his friend's location, Fíli flew back through his memories to find the last time he had noticed Soren. The arrows – Frodo had yelled, and Soren had knocked Fíli out of the arrows' path.

A chill scuttled down Fíli's spine like a frozen spider, and he slowly looked down at the bank itself.

And horror struck a blow to his stomach.

Soren was lying where he had fallen, face down, unmoving. His dark hair and dark clothes had blended in with the bank, and he was veiled in shadows, but how had Fíli not seen him? How had Fíli not seen the three, long arrows protruding from his friend's back?

Stop. Breathe.

 _Was Soren breathing?_

Fíli's own chest tightened, and he whirled around, seizing his mother's arm just before she ran out of reach. "Cover Kíli, send me Bragi!"

If she was confused, Dís did not show it. She nodded, once, and then continued her charge towards the monster. Towards Kíli and Bragi. Throwing his own swords into their sheaths, Fíli turned and ran back down the bank, weaving around Glorfindel, Ori and Saradoc as they followed his mother.

Soren was only seconds away, but in those seconds Fíli had already taken in everything about his friend's position. Three feet from the rock-face, four from the pool. Arrow between his shoulder blades, another in the small of his back, another just above his hip. His face turned towards the mountain, left arm beneath him, right arm stretched out towards Fíli.

Right fingers slipping over the stones.

 _He was alive._

Fíli skidded to his knees beside him, sending shingle flying out against the mountain behind. His heart was beating fast as it had on Weathertop, and his fear was scrambling from his lungs up to his throat, but his hands were steady. He reached up to Soren's outstretched hand and took it, wincing at the ice of its touch.

"Soren," he said, using all the strength he had to keep his voice calm and strong. Soren did not need his panic. "Soren, can you hear me, buhel?"

Soren's eyes flickered beneath their lids, and Fíli shifted his grip on his friend's hand to try and take a pulse. The beat was little more than a flutter, too fast and too shallow, but it was there.

"Soren," he said again, louder and a little more urgently. "Soren, I need you to wake up, now."

Again, Soren's eyes flickered beneath his lids, but this time the movement was accompanied by a weak groan. Fíli leant forward, his knees growing warm and wet. Startled, he looked down, and then closed his eyes. He was kneeling in a sea of Soren's blood. Ragan's son could not afford to lose much more.

Even as this thought passed through Fíli's mind, Soren's eyelids quivered, and then opened half-way.

"Fíli…" he rasped, his voice as quiet as death.

"Aye, Soren, it's me. That's a lad, look at me, look at me now." Fíli refused to allow his voice to shake as he dragged his lips into a smile. Without looking away from his friend's face, he drew a small knife from his pocket, and severed his own coat sleeves. There was no time to run for bandages. "There we go, there we go. Breathe. I'm here. Bragi's coming."

"Bragi." Soren's voice broke between the syllables, and his eyebrows scrunched down low. "Shouldn', shouldn' see… 's bad th's time, Fíli."

"Nah," Fíli lied, giving a casual shrug as he pressed the torn fabric against the lowest wound. It seemed to be bleeding the heaviest. Soren hissed, and his hand tightened around Fíli's a little, but he did not protest. "Worse things happen in the mines."

"No." Soren closed his eyes, and his fingers clumsily wove through Fíli's. "I know i's bad." Then his eyes opened, and there was fear sparkling behind his tears. "Don', don' leave me?"

"Never," Fíli promised, his own eyes threatening to sting. "No, I'm right here."

"Safe?"

"You're s-"

Soren groaned. " _You_ safe? M' job…"

Fíli could no longer hold back tears of his own. "Soren… I'm safe. I'm safe, Soren. You did well."

A small smile slipped across Soren's cheeks, and sent a dribble of blood down onto the rocks below. "Did well…"

"A little too well," Fíli attempted to joke, and to his relief Soren gave a huff of breath that could be a laugh. But the movement made him wince, and then cough, and then let out weak little shuddering gasps. "Soren! Soren, calm down, just breathe. That's it, breathe. There we go… Of course you did your job. Of course you did it too well. You have never failed me, buhel."

"Friend, of all friends," breathed Soren, his eyelids flickering. "I… did my best… for my fam'ly…"

Before Fíli could reply, a horror-struck cry announced Bragi's arrival.

" _Soren_!" Bragi collapsed onto the earth at Soren's head, crawling forward like a thing possessed. One shaking hand rested on Soren's head, and the other seized his shoulder. "Oh Mahal, what happened? What _happened?"_

With the last two words, Bragi turned his stricken face to Fíli, but the prince had no diplomatic reply for that.

"Wasn' quick 'nough," Soren whispered, and with a jolt of fear, Fíli realised that his voice was getting weaker. But when his hazy eyes found Bragi, Soren smiled, and his whole body seemed to relax. "Bragi… Bragi…"

"I'm here," promised the albino. "I'm here, Soren. You just hold on, you'll be fine. We have elves, do we not? They'll make sure you're alright, I swear it."

With those words, Soren's green eyes swam with tears, and then fixed on Fíli. "Did my duty?"

A tremble broke through Fíli's composure. "You did. You always have. Now I will ask nothing more than for you to hold on."

"Don', please… Don' ask me… I cannot…"

"No, no!" Bragi stammered, but Soren's eyes did not leave Fíli. "Stop thinking like that, Soren, you're not going to die."

"Please…" Soren whispered, and Fíli was certain his friend was seeing into his very soul. "Jus' 'n case?"

Fíli glanced at Bragi, but the albino could not tear his own eyes from Soren. Taking a deep breath, Fíli bowed his head, and then smiled sadly at their wounded friend. "Have peace in your heart, Lord, for your duty is done. You have made proud your prince and your kingdom, and I will ask no more of you." Bragi let out a soft cry, and Fíli's composure crumpled. His hand tightened over Soren's. "But as your friend, I beg you to hold on. I do not want to lose any family today."

Peace passed over Soren's face, and his fingers nudged Fíli's hand. "Thank you."

"No, _no_!" cried Bragi, a wild fear in his eyes that stabbed Fíli through the gut. It was a fear he knew all too well – the fear that had conquered him every time he was about to lose his Kíli. "No, Soren, you must hold on, you must! For the love of _Mahal,_ Soren, just stay with me!"

"Hey," Soren began, but then he choked, and began to cough. His body spasmed as coughs wracked through his torso and sprayed blood onto the ground below. It was all Bragi and Fíli could do to pillow his head and keep pressure on the wounds around the arrows until it passed. When it did, Soren's clouded eyes were only for Bragi. "A' leas'… I'll get'a… meet your… Ada…"

"No," Bragi begged, as sobs began to shake his own body. He clutched Soren's shoulder with white fingers, and wove his hands into the other dwarf's hair. It felt as though Fíli was intruding in something private, but he had sworn not to leave, and he could not bear to leave Bragi, either. "No, I don't want you to meet him, not now, not like this! Please, nadadith, please don't leave me. Come on, nadadith, come on now, please!"

"Nadad," breathed Soren. His smile grew stronger, and he gazed up at Bragi. "Love you, nadad…"

"I love you too, nadadith," sobbed Bragi, sinking down to lie on the ground in front of his little brother. He pressed his forehead against Soren's. "Please Soren. Just a little while longer, the elves will be here soon. The elves will come. You'll be fine, you'll live, Soren, please, don't leave me, come on, Soren, please! The elves will come, the elves will help."

"Your, your Adad will come," Soren promised, his voice barely louder than his shallow breaths. "You, you tell my… tell _our_ … Ada…"

And then he exhaled, and his eyes became blank, and he did not move again.

Fíli made no attempt to stop the sob that broke from his lips, nor the shaking of his hands as he fumbled desperately for a pulse he knew he would not find. He took his other hand away from the wound and covered his eyes, but then he reached to the side and grabbed Bragi's arm.

 _I'm here,_ he wanted to say. _I don't know what you need from me, my friend, but I'm here._

 _I'm so sorry._

If surprise could have been felt through the grief that was turning his veins to red hot metal, Fíli would have been surprised that Bragi did not scream. He did not cry out, or roar in anger, or beg to know what Soren wanted his father to be told.

He simply closed his eyes, drew Soren's forehead close to his, and began to cry. His sobs were silent, but they grew stronger and stronger without sound, rocking his whole body as he wrapped his arms around Soren and drew him close. A soft whine was the only noise to escape him, and Fíli did not know what to do.

 _Yes, you do,_ a voice like Thorin's insisted in his mind. _Take stock of your surroundings. If someone you love dies in a fight you turn that grief into fuel for the fighting until the danger has passed._

Fíli looked up, ignoring the tears streaming down his own face, ignoring his own pain. He had to focus.

The orcs must have been beaten, because Thorin, Ehren and Dwalin were running up towards the creek.

But while the monster had been driven back into the water, it was far from dead. Arrows and knives and axes were embedded in its tentacles, and a few in its body, but it seemed to be able to ward off the warrior's blows more often than not. As Fíli watched, it seized Ori and dragged him into the air, but the dwarf did not even scream. Already, Kíli had cut him down. Glorfindel was making more progress, dancing over the tentacles as Legolas had, but he was repeatedly thrown back into the side of the mountain.

He looked back over his shoulder, saw Nori hacking at tentacles that came too close to a certain part of the mountain – someone was hurt.

 _He had to help._ Fíli went to release Soren's hand, but he found that his own fingers would not move. If he let go – if he let go it became real, and Soren was gone.

Gathering what strength he had left, Fíli cleared his throat, and squeezed Bragi's arm. "Stay with him," he murmured. "I must, I must help the others."

Bragi's eyes opened, and they were burning with such a rage that Fíli let go of his arm. "Is that an order?"

"No," Fíli said. "Do what you need to do, Bragi."

With trembling fingers, Bragi closed Soren's eyes. "I will be back for you, brother."

And then he stood, in a movement so swift and strong that Fíli lost his breath. Bragi drew his sword, and his white brows sank low over eyes that burnt with bloodlust. He made no effort to wipe the tears from his cheeks, and his chest heaved with deep, fast breaths. The young dwarf's teeth were bared and his lips drawn into a wolf-like snarl that made him look almost deranged.

"Well?" he growled at Fíli, "Are you coming?"

Without waiting for an answer, he turned, and then charged straight into the water. Fíli scrambled to his feet, without releasing Soren's hand, and stared in awestruck horror at the white-haired warrior.

The water seemed to flee before him, even as it rose to up to his chin, allowing him to pass as swiftly as if he had been on land. Three tentacles shot towards him, but he severed them all with a single blow, and then let out a roar that drowned out all noise, and sent a sharp chill down Fíli's spine.

And then he thrust his sword into the body of the monster.

And it plunged it down until it reached the hilt.

A piercing shriek saw Fíli's shoulders rise towards his ears, and the creature's limbs fell limp. Unable to breathe, Fíli watched the thing fall slowly backwards into the water, and saw its body sink towards unspeakable depths.

He saw Bragi standing still in the water, doing nothing to get out of the way. Before any warning could be cried, a tentacle struck Bragi across the chest, and he did nothing to stop it. His head disappeared below the water, and then Fíli found the strength to scream.

 _"Bragi!"_

Without thinking, he let Soren's hand slip through his fingers and plunged into the water himself. It was frigid, and filthy, but he could not bring himself to care. Because he knew that his grief and his guilt was nothing to Bragi's. Because he knew that if Kíli had been shot down, Fíli would let the dead monster drown him in the bowels of the earth, too.

Cries of his name scarcely met his ears – some seemed confused and others afraid, but Fíli dove beneath the water and they disappeared. He was not important now.

In the blackness of the water, he could see nothing. His eyes stung fiercely, unnaturally, and no matter how quick his strokes, he felt as though he was getting nowhere. Sense told him that somewhere, not far ahead, was a drop-off point, where the water grew deep, for such a creature could not have existed in water a dwarf could wade in. But Fíli could hardly see his own hands before him, let alone a drop into deeper darkness.

Then he saw a blur of white shoot up like a ghost, and he rose to the surface himself, with a desperate burst of hope. As Fíli surfaced, he saw Bragi shaking his head fiercely, and wiping the filthy water from his sealed eyes. Breathing a sigh of relief, Fíli swam slowly over, unsure if his presence would help or hurt the dwarf in front of him.

It took Bragi a moment to notice him, and when he did it was confusion that Fíli saw in his eyes. There was no trace of the fury that had burnt mere moments before. He did not look like a dangerous warrior.

He looked like a lost dwarfling.

"I'm so sorry," said Fíli, his voice breaking. "Bragi, I – I'm sorry."

Bragi blinked, and then stared at him. "I… I lost my sword."

For a moment, Fíli was confused himself, but he nodded slowly. "We can fix that."

Bragi's eyes filled with tears. "I… I lost my Soren."

"I know," Fíli choked, unable to stop his own tears. "I know, Bragi, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

Bragi howled, and then surged forward, his arms wrapping around Fíli. Fíli closed his eyes and hugged Bragi back, relief and grief and a thousand other emotions crashing against his self-control.

Finally, one of the cries from the shore caught his attention. "Fíli, what's happening?"

 _Kíli._

Fíli twisted towards his brother's voice and began to kick, swimming without releasing Bragi from his arms. He guided the both of them back to shore, and supported Bragi's weight as they staggered onto the bank.

"What happened?" Kíli demanded, his eyes wild with fear and his hands resting on both their shoulders. "Bragi? Fee, what's wrong with him?"

Fíli swallowed, and stared at the folk staring at him, their weapons held in limp hands, their eyes wide at the sudden end to such a fight. Then he glanced at Bragi, whose gaze was fixed on the ground, and knew that it was his job to speak.

But when he tried, only one, broken word would make it. "Soren…"

Bragi moaned, and Fíli hung his head. He could not say it, but Kíli was there in front of him, and Fíli did not need to speak for his Kíli to understand him.

"No," Kíli breathed, shaking his head and looking from one to the other. "No!"

Bragi swayed, and Fíli managed to stammer out, "I think he's in shock, I need a towel, a blanket, something!"

"Soren," Bragi whispered, stumbling back down the bank. "I promised. Promised."

Thorin, Ehren and Dwalin had lingered by Soren's body on the way up the bank, and they bowed their heads as the others made their way over. Ehren was on his knees, with his head in his hands, and Dwalin was rubbing his shoulder. As they drew near, Thorin looked up at met Fíli's eyes, shaking his head sadly.

Moaning, Kíli covered his mouth with his hand and turned away. Fíli could hear other exclamations of horror and denial and sorrow, but he could neither recognise nor understand them. He did not try to. Instead, he eased Bragi down onto the ground beside Soren, and took a blanket from Esme to wrap around his shoulders.

Koda loped over and snuffled at Soren's face. Then he stiffened, and sent a mournful howl up into the night. The other wolves replied, and a raw lament rose around them, and Fíli reached out blindly. In a heartbeat, Kíli was there, taking his hand tightly. To Fíli's mild surprise, so was Thorin.

"I am sorry," he said, his voice low and trembling as he put a hand on Fíli's cheek. "He was a good dwarf."

Fíli nodded, closing his eyes and leaning into his uncle's touch for a moment. Then, he had to let out a long breath, and open his eyes. "We must find the others," he said, his voice a little sore. "Make sure that no one else is hurt. We've got to find Bofin – figure out how we are to find the others."

Thorin smiled, a proud, sad smile, and then embraced Fíli roughly with one arm. "Aye, we must."

"Oi, Kíli," Nori roared, from the rocks by the door, making Fíli jump violently. "We need you and your elves, now!"

Without hesitating, Kíli began to sprint back to where the doors had been, Glorfindel and Erestor right behind him. Given that Kíli still had his hand, Fíli followed, and at the sight of him Nori nodded, but held up his hands at the others who had followed.

"No, stay back! I mean it, we can't crowd him and the rocks are loose, wait there!" Then he gestured for Fíli and Kíli to follow and began to wade through the knee-deep water around the fallen rocks.

"What happened?" asked Kíli, his hand tightening around his brother's.

"Bofin," Nori said tightly, glancing over his shoulder at the others as they disappeared behind the fallen stone. "It's not good. Who's hurt over there?"

Fíli looked desperately at Kíli, whose eyes filled with tears. It was the younger who answered. "Soren. He, he didn't make it, Nori."

Nori stopped dead, one foot still in the air. "No?"

Fíli nodded dumbly, and Nori swore.

"Poor kid," he said gruffly, wiping at his eyes. Then he narrowed his eyes at Fíli. "You saw it happen?"

"I," Fíli began, and then he took a deep breath and nodded. "I was there."

"Is your head on straight? Because if not you'll make him panic, and things'll get worse-"

"Nori!" cried Bofur's voice, desperate and stricken, from a spot hidden around the corner.

"I'm alright," said Fíli quickly, and they hurried around to the other side of the rocks.

And then Fíli stopped breathing.

Nori was right. This was anything but good.

The cursed monster had brought the mountain down onto Bofin's legs.

The boy was lying between Bofur and Bilbo, his head cushioned by his uncle's hat, but only the very tops of his thighs had escaped the falling stone. Pale as Soren, Bofin was sweating and shivering and breathing too quickly, too weakly. Fíli could not see any blood, but he was not entirely sure that was a good thing.

Beside him, one of the elves cursed in his own tongue, and Kíli let out a small whimper. Nori ran right over, sitting beside Bofur and clasping Bofin's shoulder. "Found the elves, and a couple of rogue princes, too."

Fíli had not thought he had any reserves of morale or emotional strength left, but he drew out his last drop with a deep breath and clung to it. He was a Prince of Durin's line, and he would be as strong as his people – as his family – needed him to be.

As he jogged closer, Fíli could hear Bofin sobbing. "Please, please, Uncle, please help me, please! Don't, don't let them hurt me, please, please, Uncle!"

But it was not Bofur who replied. From the anguish carved into his face, Bofur did not look fully capable of speech.

"No one's going to hurt you," soothed Bilbo, rubbing the dwarf's hand gently. "You know the elves are the best healers we have." With that, the hobbit raised his eyes pleadingly to Glorfindel and Erestor, but the elves were already striding over.

As Fíli sat at Bofur's side, and Kíli sank down at Bilbo's, Erestor examined the rocks, and Glorfindel knelt at Bilbo's other side.

"Bofin," he said calmly, and the boy whined. "Bofin, look at me."

"Uncle," Bofin whispered, "Uncle, please…"

"It's alright," Bofur croaked, stroking Bofin's fringe from his clammy forehead. "It's alright, I won't let 'em hurt you. Not, not that they ever would. It's alright, Bofin, I'm here."

"Look at me," repeated Glorfindel gently, smiling when Bofin turned his wide eyes to the elf. "That's it. Now, how long have you been trapped? Since the rocks fell, or was it after?"

Bofin nodded jerkily, his fingers digging into the hands of Bilbo and Bofur. "When, when first they fell. The, the _thing_ grabbed me, but, but it let go and then – then…"

"I see," said Glorfindel, his long fingers resting on the side of Bofin's neck. The dwarf cringed into Bofur's side, but Glorfindel hummed gently. "It's alright. I just need to feel your pulse."

Bofin whimpered, and Bofur began to shush him gently, stroking back his hair without words.

Glorfindel looked sharply at Erestor, who had been inspecting the rocks. The latter shook his head slightly.

"How long would it take your kin to move this stone?" Erestor directed the question to Nori, who sighed heavily.

"With those of us here? A day at the least – the size of the rocks, way they're stacked, where we are here… And that's not taking into account the time taken to figure out the best way forward."

Erestor stared at Glorfindel, and then the two began speaking rapidly in elvish. Though he had picked up some of the language over the years, it was too fast and flowy for Fíli to keep up with, but Bilbo and Kíli listened like rabbits. At least they did until Glorfindel glanced at Bofin, and then spoke to Kíli softly, words that Fíli could translate himself.

 _"Keep him talking. Awake, alert."_

Kíli nodded, and began to rub Bofin's shoulder, not missing the way that the boy stared in terror at the two elves. "Why do you fear the elves now, mizimith? You know they have been friends for decades, and you know we would never let them hurt you."

Bofin moaned, trying to inch closer to Bofur. " _Stories,_ they, they win your trust and then they, they torture you and they kill you and-"

"Oh, mizimth, you're confused," said Bilbo gently. "And that's alright – very understandable. But you're thinking of ghost stories, little one. Nothing more. The elves healed Fíli and I, after the Battle of Five Armies, and then again in Mirkwood – you remember that, do you not?"

Bofin nodded shakily.

"Exactly," the hobbit murmured. "We will not let them hurt you, lad. We've got you."

Even as he hummed in assent, Fíli glanced at Glorfindel, and his heart twisted painfully. The elf's eyes were closed, and he looked pained, but he nodded slowly.

"Alright," said the elf, "Bofur, may I speak with you?"

"No!" whimpered Bofin, grasping at his uncle's sleeve. "Please, don't leave me, don't leave Uncle-"

"Just tell me here," said Bofur, turning hopeless eyes to Glorfindel.

The elf took a deep breath. "You must understand, we do not have much time, here. We do not know what that creature was, or if there are more, and there may yet be more orcs to come. But more importantly, it is too dangerous to shift the rocks. It would take too long to do so safely, and even if we could remove them immediately, I fear that the damage to Bofin's legs is already very severe. Erestor is about to tourniquet both legs to stop Bofin's own blood poisoning him, but it will not be painless. Then…"

Bofin gave a low wail closed his eyes, sobs shaking his chest and sending tears down his cheeks. His uncle's reaction was all but identical, and Fíli wrapped his arm around Bofur's shoulders as the trembling toymaker sobbed. The prince's own stomach was heaving and his mind was spinning, and he could see that Kíli was trembling, and leaning into Bilbo's side. The hobbit was whiter than paper, but was the only one who managed to continue murmuring soft assurances to the terrified Bofin.

They all knew what Glorfindel was saying.

People that lived underground and shared their homes with miners knew all about crush injuries.

Bofin would lose his legs, or he would lose his life.

 **And there I will finish for today! Please do let me know what you thought, I love hearing from you!**

 **Thanks for reading :)**


	22. Chapter 22: The Tombs

**Hey there, everyone! Sorry about the horribly long wait, I spent a week deep cleaning my grandfather's house and then almost immediately began my new job. It's in an amazing bookstore and it's all very exciting (I got to sort the Tolkien section the other day :D) but I've been exhausted and had little time and energy to write. I'm getting into the swing of the job a bit more now, so touch-wood it shouldn't be too long until the next update, but you know how life goes :/**

 **So, forgive my typos, and please read, enjoy and review!**

 **Chapter Twenty-Two # The Tombs #**

Kíli felt as though a white-hot brand was being driven into his heart as Bofin whimpered and squirmed weakly, fighting against the sleep tonic Bilbo had all but forced down his throat. The young dwarf's head was in his uncle's lap, and his gaze was upwards, pleading, but Bofur seemed to have shut down. The only part of him that moved were his tears, which trailed into his moustache and fell from his nose. Hollow eyes, mouth ajar, white hands – Bofur looked more like a ghost than a dwarf.

He looked like the shattered souls whose innocence had been ripped away in the Battle of the Five armies. Like Fíli, like Bilbo, like Ori, like Kíli – like a terrified and hopeless child too numb to move and too tortured to wail.

It was all Kíli could do to keep himself from sobbing, and keep rubbing small circles into Bofin's arm.

"Uncle," begged Bofin, slurring a little as his tongue stumbled over the words, "Uncle, please… please…" When Bofur closed his eyes, Bofin turned to the hobbit. "Bilbo… Bilbo, please-"

"Hush now, lad," murmured Bilbo, a slight tremble betraying his anguish to Kíli. "Sleep now, we are here."

Bofin sobbed, and the sound was as weak as a sigh. Kíli shuddered, and glanced up at Glorfindel, who lingered but two feet away. The elf smiled sadly when he met Kíli's eye, but closed his eyes when Kíli's gaze sank down to the bright, clean sword that hung at his side. Kíli swallowed.

Behind Glorfindel, Nori and Erestor were tending their fire, using the skills of elves and dwarves to make it hot. Hot enough.

"I'll wake," Bofin whimpered, "I'll wake an' they'll be gone…"

Bofur groaned and dropped his forehead onto Bofin's, his whole body trembling. Fíli's arm was still around Bofur's shoulders, but Kíli's brother looked just as dazed and pained as the toymaker.

"But we will be here," Bilbo promised, squeezing Bofin's hand tighter. "We will be here, and you will be safe. And it… it will be better not to see them go, little one."

Half wondering at Bilbo's ability to keep talking when his own throat was stoppered, Kíli nestled further into his father's side, and tried to calm his breathing. Hearing Kíli panic would do nothing good for Bofin.

"Ada," gasped Bofin, his eyes widening. Kíli's heart sank, but the boy continued. "Ada's gon' cry… Ama, Ama'll die…"

"No."

The croaking voice made Kíli jump, violently. He had almost forgotten that Bofur could speak.

"No," Bofur repeated, his head rising and his trembling fingers brushing Bofin's fringe from his now open eyes. "Amad will be fine, and so will Adad. So will you. I promise, Bofin, I won't go anywhere, I won't let _you_ go anywhere. And I won't let you give your parents a heart attack."

Bofin's eyelids where fluttering now, and his eyes were glazing over, but what focus he had was trained on his uncle, and a single word slipped from his quivering lips. "P'mise?"

"I promise," sobbed Bofur, and Kíli tasted the salt of his own tears reaching his lips.

He brushed his shoulder across his face and dropped his head onto Bilbo's shoulders, while his trembling thumb kept drawing nonsense onto his cousin's arm.

Bofin sighed another sob, and then let his eyes close. Within moments, his frightened, hitched breaths had smoothed into sleep sighs, and Glorfindel stepped forward. Bofur did not look up.

"You save him," he growled, a sound like a snared wolf warning away a hunter. "You get him out of here, you save him."

"I will do all that I can do, and that is not little," said the elf, bowing. Then, he turned to Kíli. "However, we will need more space, and the others ought to know more. Kíli? Fíli?"

The elf's meaning struck Kíli straight away, but Fíli simply blinked, holding onto Bofin's limp hand and rocking slightly on the spot. Hesitating, Kíli glanced up at Glorfindel. How could they leave now? Glorfindel sighed, and tapped the hilt of his freshly cleaned sword.

"You will not want to watch."

For the first time, a full sob broke from Bilbo, and he twisted to hold Kíli tightly, pressing his forehead to the young dwarf's. "Go. Tell your mother what's happening. Help Fíli."

Kíli squeezed his eyes closed, but nodded, standing on knees that felt like water. He stumbled around Bofin, around Bofur, and took Fíli's arm. His brother did not fight him, and allowed himself to be led to his feet, but he swayed, and Kíli dragged Fíli's arm up over his own shoulder.

"Call us," he said hoarsely, his throat protesting that he spoke rather than sobbed. "If something happens?"

"We will," Bilbo vowed, dabbing his eyes on his handkerchief. "Go now."

Kíli swallowed, and led Fíli out into the shallows of the dark water. He did not want to touch it again, he did not want _Fíli_ to touch it again, yet they had little choice. He did not want to walk around those rocks.

Did not want to see what was on the other side.

Did not want to acknowledge that Soren – Soren was –

Kíli stumbled, and only just managed to catch Fíli before his brother's nose hit the water. He took a sharp breath, and straightened his shoulders, while Fíli gasped and blinked like one struck over the head.

"Kíli," he whispered, "m'sorry…"

"It's alright," Kíli replied, pressing his forehead to Fíli's before taking another step forward.

He had to be strong now, had to look after Fíli. He would cry later. He would mourn when they were safer. When Fíli no longer looked as though he were about to collapse.

As soon as they came in sight of the others, Dís, Thorin and Esme charged into the water, though the others had clearly been ordered to stay back. A dull probe of thought told Kíli that Esme had probably been told to stay back, too, and her refusal to do so warmed him a little.

"What is happening, what can you tell us?" demanded Thorin, taking Kíli's shoulder as Dís pulled Fíli's other arm over her shoulder and took his weight from her younger son.

Kíli took a deep breath, and looked at his mother. Esme waded around to take his arm, and Kíli swallowed. "Bofin… He's alive. But – they'll – they're going… he will lose his legs."

Mouth dropping open, Dís hung her head, but Thorin's reaction was a little louder.

" _What_? That elf said he was crushed, we could move the stones-"

"We couldn't," Kíli moaned, a slight sob shaking his voice. "It would've brought the mountain down upon him, there wasn't _time,_ they're too big, too high, there wasn't… Uncle, please – don't, don't blame the elves. Not now. I can't…"

Esme shushed Kíli, wrapping her arms around him and standing on her toes to kiss his cheek, before nodding at Dís. "Let's get you to shore. Out of this filth, hey?"

They slowly made their way to shore, and Dís called out for a blanket for Fíli. "He's soaked to the bone."

Kíli blinked – he had not even noticed. Guilt burnt its way into the emotions devouring his stomach, and he hung his head before he could see anything else.

"We do not have time to grieve." Thorin's voice rang out loud and clear across the lake, and Kíli shuddered. "We have suffered great wounds here, yet we cannot afford to linger long. We must regroup, decide what is to be done. And while the elves help Bofin, we must attend to the dead."

Kíli's eyes drifted up to the bank, to where Bragi was still sitting beside Soren, to where Ehren held Bragi with his chin on his chest, to where Dwalin stood guard with tears glistening on his face.

"How?" asked Vinca, her voice trembling. She was standing very close to her father, and her arms were wrapped very tightly around her waist. "We, we don't have any shovels, and we can't, we can't – he, we…"

"We have no lack of stone," said Thorin mournfully, turning to the rubble of the doors. For a moment, he stood still and stared, and then he raised his chin. "The doors of Durin will make a fitting cairn." He turned to Kíli. "Will we be able to move rock from his side without disturbing Bofin?"

 _Why are you asking me?_ Kíli wanted to sob.

 _Because Fee's in worse shape than I am,_ he replied to himself.

"I, I think so. It's more precarious on the other side, and the rocks are bigger." Kíli sighed, as though the effort of the sentence had been akin to running a marathon.

Thorin nodded. "Very well. With Bragi's assent, that is what we will do." Then he strode over to Kíli, and enveloped him in a crushing hug. He did not speak.

He did not need to.

Then he pulled away, and they began.

It was slow work. To be safe, they took stone from the top and edges of the rubble, and piece by broken piece they began to build, until they had a steadfast wall as high as their thighs. As they worked the hours dripped by, and the elves, Nori, Bofur and Bilbo returned, with Bofin cradled in his uncle's arms. He still slept, and none could stop their eyes from watering at the bandaged stumps of his legs.

Without speaking, Nori, Bilbo and the elves began to help with the building. Bofur sat with his nephew in his lap, and played a quiet dirge on the flute that was ever tucked in his sleeve. It was all he had the strength to do, all he could do to help, and even Bragi understood. The wolves that circled in an endless guard of the banks howled softly along, all save Nyla, who in the absence of Bróin was curled up close to Bofin, and watching him with unfailing eyes.

Ori was knee deep in the water when he found it – a smooth faced slab of rock that glittered faintly in the moonlight. Alone, he hauled it to shore, and alone he set to work. No one could engrave stone as fast as he could, nor could they create characters of such beauty. Ori wept silently as he worked around the dimming veins of light, beneath an emblem of a long dead king.

It was Dwalin who announced in a grave voice that the cairn was high enough. That the time had come. The moon was only just past its peak, but few could believe only hours had passed. It felt as though they had been building for years.

Wordlessly, Paladin lay his blanket on the ground within the cairn, spreading out the creases as if tucking in a child, and Saradoc bundled up his good and laid it as a pillow at one end.

Bragi carried Soren to the cairn. His knees trembled and his tears fell upon his brother's chest, but he did not falter. He pressed his forehead against Soren's one last time, and then lowered him onto Paladin's blanket, resting his head on the prepared cloak. His pale fingers combed through Soren's hair, so it would fall just so around his face, and then gently tugged his beard one last time. A still trembling Fíli handed Bragi Soren's sword and bow, and Bragi placed them on either side of the body.

Then, he took a knife to his own hair, and severed a thin braid the length of his arm, that had long hung over his shoulder. With a soft sob, Bragi placed it neatly beside the bow, and then folded the beaded end into Soren's hand. From Soren's body, he took a small knife, and three beads. One of these, he would later braid into his own hair. The others he strung onto a chain around his neck, until he could deliver them to Soren's parents.

Then Bragi stood, and a few of the others placed trinkets around the body. Dwalin and Fíli each left a knife, and both Dís and Thorin a ring. Ehren removed the silver chain he had worn since coming of age, and left it by Soren's neck. After a moment's hesitation, Bofur laid his flute beside Soren's sword. The hobbits had ventured a few steps into the woods, and returned with winter flowers. Heather, for admiration. Cyclamen, for resignation. And for goodbye. Kíli secured a small bundle of the flowers together with the first bead he had ever forged for himself, and sobbed freely as he let it fall onto Soren's chest.

Her voice trembling, Vinca sang in a low voice, a wordless hymn that filled the silence left by Bofur's flute, as the others began to stack stones into a roof. It was a little slower, with the workers adamant that this cairn would never collapse, but the skill of the dwarves was not wrongly lauded. Halfway between midnight and dawn, they completed their work, and then Ori revealed his labour to Bragi.

The albino let out a low wail, seizing Ori into a brief embrace, and then together they set the stone atop the cairn, above Soren's head. Durin's emblem shone in the moonlight, the last whole remnant of the ancient door, and beneath it were carved fresh words, in the most beautiful runes that Ori ever had created.

 _Soren, son of Ragan_

 _Truest of guards, greatest of friends, bravest of sons_

 _In sleep eternal here he will rest,_

 _The Doors of Durin upon his breast_

 _Which evermore shall bring starlight,_

 _To banish the darkness of unending night._

* * *

When Bróin was a child, he had been enamoured with the idea of Moria. A kingdom like no other – the first hall of the dwarves, a mithril mine, a stronghold in the orc-riddled Misty Mountains – it had been stories of Moria he had searched for, when other children sang of Erebor.

To Bróin, Moria had seemed more tangible. There was a dragon in Erebor, and he had never heard of dwarves killing a dragon before. Of course, he was sure it _could_ be done, and Durin or another hero must have done so at some point, but orcs were much easier foes to fight. They had to be, or the men would not laugh so much when they returned from skirmishes in the Blue Mountains. They almost always returned. Why should Moria be any different?

When Bombur gently told his children that he and Uncle Bofur and Uncle Bifur would be going to reclaim their homeland, Bróin's blood had run cold at the name of Erebor. Why choose Erebor when Moria was closer, and not infested by a dragon?

But of course, Bróin was the strong son, so he had decided that Adad would kill the dragon just fine, and be home in time for Durin's day.

Obviously, that was not how it happened, and Bróin had left on his own adventure (as he liked to think of it) when their mother took them to join Bombur in the reclaimed city. Still, though, Bróin dreamed of Moria. Of Khazad-dûm, of the mines, of the starlit doors.

Then, Erebor had become his home, and its soul seeped into Bróin's, and his dreams changed. He would reconquer Moria, lead the charge and see it restored under Thorin's kingship. And then he would go home, and return to the light-filled city for holidays. How great it would be for his hobbit kin, to have such a city give them passage through the Misty Mountains! Their journeys would be so much easier, so much brighter, and full of wonder at the middle, as well as the beginning and end.

While other children played games of fighting dragons, Bróin and Nelly had played at reclaiming Moria.

He had never really realised what it would be like to enter a dead city.

A tomb – that's what Boromir had called it, whispering to Aragorn as they passed deeper into the mines, and Bróin's heart seized in agreement.

Moria was a tomb.

 _Perhaps, even his brother's tomb._

At that thought, Bróin clenched his jaw shut and took a breath through his nose. Bofin was alive, and he had no proof otherwise.

Outside the glow of Gandalf's staff, there was only darkness, a black so deep that Bróin could hardly see, and the hobbits could not see at all. Bróin had imagined cobwebs and dust, and even pitfalls and old bones, but he had never envisioned the darkness. It was lapping around his ankles, threatening to swallow him whole. Like that monster –

 _Bofin was alive. There was no proof otherwise._

The pitfalls and fissures that they passed reminded him of wide open mouths, screaming, lacking teeth. He knew he was not the only one to loathe them – it took the company near ten minutes to coax Pippin into leaping across the largest gap in their path. When they were not persuading the youngest hobbit to vault seven foot fissures, Frodo and Aragorn were explaining their motives to Gandalf, and Bróin paid them no attention.

The stone Bróin stepped on felt distant, foreign. In his daydreams it had welcomed him, had thanked him for freeing it from the foul feet of the orcs – but this was no dream. It was not even a nightmare.

Bróin had freed nothing. Had not reclaimed so much as an inch of dirt. He was not the saviour of this city – just another pair of feet walking in the darkness, trying not to be seen. A spider scuttling across the floor. He had never felt so small.

He had never felt so unsure of his emotions.

He thought he should hate the dark city, the deadened mirror of his childhood dreams. The doors that came down and took his brother – _his brother's_ foot _no proof otherwise –_ the walls that held despair in and kept hope out, the abyss on either side of the walkway that would turn a slip into death.

It should be a place he would look back on in disgust, in sorrow and fear, and those feelings did take regular swings at his heart. But Bróin's heart grieved for what Moria had been, what it could be. He yearned for a time when it would be Khazad-dûm again –Dwarrowdelf, and not Moria, the black pit. He ached at the prospect of leaving it thus, abandoned and desolate, and he felt a great affection eat into his bones. It was not the same as the love he held for Erebor, nor the nostalgia for his childhood home in Ered Luin, but it was deep all the same. A respect, an honour, a spark of care for a home that was lost. A city that had survived thousands of years to be gutted and abandoned, lost to history. Bofin was all about history, reading into the past. Bróin preferred making history breathe again.

 _No proof otherwise._

 _No proof I've killed my brother._

No – Bróin paused, wrapping an arm around his chest and steadying himself. If, by some impossibility, Bofin was dead, it was not Bróin who killed him. It was that monster, that thing, and his brother's own choice to follow.

But why? That was something Bróin still could not fathom. Bofin hated travelling – he had even debated the journey to Frodo's birthday party. He hated conflict, too, and was less use with a sword than the younger hobbits, with the possible exception of Pearl. Despite her grace as a dancer, and Dwalin's exhaustive attempts at teaching, Pearl was still rather poor when it came to swordplay. And so was Bofin – so what on earth had driven him to –

"Omph!"

Bróin staggered as someone very small bumped into him from behind, and then gave a weak smile over his shoulder to a startled hobbit. "Sorry, Merry."

"Nah, that was my fault," the hobbit murmured back, a half-smile twitching across his unusually colourless cheeks. "Should've watched where I was going." He paused, staring intently at Bróin with his sharp brown eyes. "How're you doing?"

"Fine and dandy," Bróin said, raising an eyebrow.

Merry snorted, and Bróin turned back to the front, starting to follow Nelly again. She glanced back at him with pursed lips, but did not say anything. Instead, she cocked her head to touch her shoulder with her ear, smiled a little and then looked turned back. It was their gesture for 'here if you need me.'

Tears dammed in Bróin's throat, and he swallowed, gazing down at his feet. One foot after the other. One step, two steps.

 _"One step, two steps," sang Marta, helping Bróin into his trousers. His foot got stuck in the bottom, and he grunted, kicking as hard as he could to push it through, and his mother laughed. Bofin ran past, knocking Bróin off his feet._

Why? Why had Bofin come? They were not close, and never had been. Bofin would look after the twins and the little ones, and Bróin would look after himself. Perhaps he had come to take the hobbits home – Bofin had always been particularly protective over Sam – but no, he had run straight to Bróin. Grabbed Bróin's arms.

Why?

"Well," said the wizard, and his voice rang like a shout in the darkness. "I think that will do for today. I have no memory of this place, and deciding such things is always more effective after a rest."

Bróin frowned, peering around Nelly to see what Gandalf meant by 'decisions.' They had reached a crossroads, it seemed – there were three large archways, leading in three directions, and beside them an old stone door. Though his mind and body both screamed for rest, Bróin did not much like the idea of camping here, on an exposed path, with three open passages ahead and one behind.

But then Gandalf pushed the stone door, and it swung back easily to reveal a chamber cut into the rock. Bróin breathed a sigh of relief as the wizard relaxed, pouring light into the little room.

"We can rest here," Gandalf declared, "but take care. There is a large hole in the centre of the floor, and it would not do for one of you to fall in."

The company spilled inside the chamber, and Bróin glanced only briefly at the hole. It looked like a large well, and a stone lid lay beside it in two pieces. Curiosity was the very last thing on his mind.

Wedging himself right at the back of the chamber, Bróin leant his head against the wall and tried to resist the urge to hug his knees to his chest. He could not remember ever being so tired, so worn down. He was not sure he would care at all if he rolled right into the well.

"Here."

Bróin flashed Nelly as much of a smile as he could gather, and took the bread from her pale fingers. "Ta."

She nodded, and began making a nest out of her bedroll, and nudging Bróin into the task of setting out his own. He moved blindly through the familiar motions, wishing that sleep would just take him, until a soft 'plunk' sounded in the dark, magnified by the silence around them. Bróin whirled around, back to the well, even as Gandalf cried "What was that?" and Pippin stumbled back from the edge of the well. Going pale.

"I, I, I'm sorry," stammered the young hobbit. "I just wondered how deep it was and…"

Bróin groaned, and Nelly swore, but Gandalf looked almost relieved as he swooped forward.

"Fool of a Took!" he snarled, peering down the well. "Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!" Bróin frowned, and Pippin opened his mouth but Gandalf held up a hand. "Now be quiet!"

An awful silence slipped over them, and seemed to fill every crevice of the room. Nelly was glowering at Pippin, and Bróin knew that the moment Gandalf deemed speech allowed she would let her tongue loose. For his own part, the young dwarf was both annoyed and disappointed in Pippin – he had never expected him to do something as foolish as _that_ – but he quickly found that he did not have the strength to feel angry.

A faint knocking sound rose from the depths, and Bróin bristled. They stopped, their echoes died, and then they were repeated. Tap, tap, tap-tap. Tap, tap, tap-tap. Were they signals? Bróin's hand rose to his sword hilt and his heart picked up speed, but then the sound faded. He counted his breath several hundred times before finally, Gimli broke the silence.

"That was the sound of a hammer," he said, his voice remarkably calm.

"Yes," Gandalf mused, stroking his beard, "and I don't like it. But we have little choice. It may have nothing to do with us at all, though it is more likely that Peregrin disturbed something that would be best left alone. Let us hope we can rest in peace."

"Should we not move?" asked Nelly sharply. "If he has alerted the enemy to our whereabouts…"

"Moria is a large place." Gandalf sighed heavily, and sat down on the ground. "To pinpoint our location from so little a pebble would not be so simple, and I do not yet know which way we should go. A wrong turn would mean disaster. Moreover, you are in need of rest. We cannot go on much further without someone stumbling into death in this darkness – when did you last rest?"

Bróin cast his mind back, but it stumbled over hours and days of haste and horror. Aragorn answered. "Last night, we slept a few hours each. We had to wait for the light. And we sat a while at the gates. Waiting for the stars."

"Loathe as I am to admit it," added Boromir, "we are spent. Without rest we have little hope, Nelly."

"We shall set up a watch," decreed Gandalf, his sharp eyes pinpointing Pippin. " _You_ shall take the first watch, as a reward for your stupidity. If you hear another sound that comes not from us, you wake me immediately."

Bróin sank down onto his bedroll, as did most of the others, but Nelly stalked straight over to her brother. Bróin turned his face away, but he still heard every word. He did not think he had ever heard such fury in her voice.

"For Mahal's _sake_ , Pippin, could you be more of a damned idiot? 'Oh, I'm mature, Nelly, I can do this Nelly!' – you can't, and you know you can't. You just risked our lives, you just risked _everything,_ because you 'wanted to know how deep it was.' Well, I'm sick of it! Either you grow up, or I'll beat you myself and tie you to a tree so you can't curse our path any further!"

"Nelly," Merry began, but Nelly cut over him with a voice as sharp as her knives.

"You're my brother and I love you, but by Mahal Pippin, I mean it. You're going to get yourself killed, and you're going to take us down with you. I told you not to come. You should have listened to me."

With that, she turned, and stormed back to her bedroll, curling up in a blanket and turning her face towards the wall.

"Pip," Merry began, but then he trailed off, and Pippin did not respond.

The awkward quiet was quick to pull the men and Gimli into sleep, and soon Bróin heard the soft snores of Frodo and Sam as well. Beside him, Nelly was snuffling, her breath hitching slightly in a way that Bróin recognised. But her face was turned away from him, and he knew she did not want his comfort, so he closed his eyes and let her cry herself to sleep.

But still, sleep would not take him. Not even when Nelly's sobs slipped into snores, and Merry's breathing grew slow and deep. He felt the minutes drip through his fingers, and despite the fatigue crushing him like a thousand stones –

Bofin.

He sat up, and shoved his knuckles into his eyes. _No proof otherwise. No proof otherwise._

Another soft, sniffling sound caught his attention, and he glanced up at Pippin. The youngest hobbit was curled up by the door, his arms locked around his knees, and his gaze flicking between the door and the hole. He ran his sleeve over his nose and took a deep breath, a breath that shuddered.

Bróin closed his eyes. He was too tired to tell if Nelly gave Pippin what he deserved. She was right that he put them in danger. Right that he was an idiot, that he should have known better. Right that they may be slaughtered for his curiosity's sake. But Bróin was too tired to care. He stood up, his booted feet making scare more noise than a hobbit's as he wove through slumbering legs to reach his cousin.

"Hey, Pip," he murmured, grief and fatigue making his voice feel very tight. "You get some sleep. I'll take this watch."

Pippin's eyes flickered to Gandalf. The wizard's eyes were closed, but everyone knew that meant very little when it came to Gandalf. Bróin smiled sadly.

"I mean it. I can't sleep. No point us both sitting up."

Pippin nodded gratefully, but then he paused. His lips pursed, as if he was trapping his words inside, but it took only a moment for them to spill out. "I really am sorry," he said, his voice catching. "I wasn't thinking, she's right, I was just so tired and curious, and I'm sorry, Bróin. I didn't mean to put anyone in danger."

"I know," the dwarf promised, squeezing Pippin's shoulder. "It's alright. I know."

"Do you…" Pippin shuffled awkwardly, scratching at the back of his neck the way that he always did when trying to act like Merry. "Do you want to talk, about, uh…"

Bróin shook his head. "It's alright. Just sleep."

Finally, Pippin nodded, and then scampered back into place beside Merry. Putting his stubborn eyes to use, Bróin copied Pippin's former motion of turning his head from the door to the hole. He could see a little outside the door – not much, but he could make out the murky passageways – but down the well, he could see nothing. It seemed unfathomably deep, but Pippin's stone had fallen to water somewhere.

Deep, dark water. Like the lake outside the mountain.

"May I join you?"

Bróin started, but his hand left his hilt as quickly as it moved there when he registered Boromir's voice. "Of course."

The man sat down beside him with a sigh. "Sleep evades me, too." After a moment, he added, "You are doing very well, you know. Your brother will be proud when he hears of it."

Slightly surprised by Boromir's words, Bróin gazed at the man's shadowy face. "You did not say 'if'."

"No." Boromir smiled sadly. "I did not, did I?"

Bróin's lip twitched into a half smile of thanks, and a comforting silence fell around them. It was a feeling of safety akin to that of a favourite blanket – you knew that its presence offered little to no protection, but felt safer with it there all the same. It was the same feeling that his older family members and even Frodo could bring – the feeling he had always associated with an older brother. A feeling he had never felt from Bofin.

He hung his head.

"You are doing well," Boromir said softly, "but remember that you are not here alone. If you are in need of anything, by all means ask for it.

"Thanks," muttered Bróin, but if he was honest, he was unsure of what he needed, other than the sleep that danced just out of reach.

After a few moments, Boromir spoke again. "Forgive me, if I pry, and by all means do not answer if you do not wish to, but I was wondering about your family…"

Bróin frowned slightly. "What about it?"

"Well, and I mean no offense, but you are younger than the others, in a manner of speaking. Yet you seemed less worried than the others about the approach and reaction of your elders, and you appeared more irritated than alarmed at your brother's presence, at first." Boromir paused, as if waiting to see if he had upset Bróin. Then he interpreted Bróin's silence as permission to continue, correctly. "I wondered if you believe your taking this journey would have little effect on your family?"

"They are all my family," Bróin said quietly, looking at Frodo.

"Indeed," said Boromir, running a hand through his hair and dropping the subject with equal grace.

"You ought to braid it."

The man frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"You do that a lot," Bróin nodded. "If your hair gets in your face, you should braid it."

Boromir grinned. "Among my people only the women wear braids, Master Dwarf."

The comfortable silence returned, and Bróin pondered on the man's analysis. Then, with a deep sigh, he spoke.

"I have five brothers, Master Boromir, and three sisters. For a dwarf, that is more children than they could dream of. My parents would mourn if I fell, but they would recover, and recover far quicker than the guardians of the others. They have four sons and three daughters to fill the gap. In that sense, I have less to worry about than the others." He sighed. "Besides, I have always been the problematic one. I doubt they'll even be surprised."

For a long while, Boromir did not speak. When he did, his voice was much sadder than before. "The gap will always be hard to fill."

Bróin shrugged. "You have one brother."

"Yes," Boromir said, fixing Bróin with piercing eyes. "And I know what I would do to protect him. As do you. What you have forgotten is that your brothers will also seek to protect you."

Bróin felt tears rising in his throat and clenched his teeth. "It is different. We are not close."

"Yet the love is no less."

"No, but…" Bróin could feel everything fighting to reach the surface – already tears were leaking from his eyes. He brushed his sleeve angrily across his face. By Mahal, he was old enough for this quest, he was too old to cry. "But…"

"You did not think your brother cared as much as you did, did you?" Boromir asked gently, and Bróin glared tearfully at him. Why did he have to hit the nail on the head?

"Why did he come?" were the words that broke from Bróin's lips. "Why?"

"Because he does," sighed Boromir, his own eyes heavy with sorrow. "He cares for you."

"It can't be that simple!" hissed Bróin, because if it was not a hiss it would be a wail, and he did not want anyone else to wake.

"Then you must keep yourself safe, so that one day you can ask him to elaborate," said Boromir firmly. "You will see that day come to pass, Bróin. We will fulfil our quest, and Bofin will see it too."

Bróin nodded shakily, wiping at his eyes once again. "You sound very sure of that."

"What is the alternative? If I worried every moment that Faramir is slain in Gondor in my absence, I would never be able to focus. I have no proof he is dead, so he is alive. And I believe the same for Bofin." Boromir ruffled Bróin's hair gently. When the dwarf did not reply, he added softly, "Get some sleep. You need it more than all of us."

"I'm not denying that," Bróin murmured. "But I do not know how to get it."

"Perhaps," said an unexpected voice, "I could help with that."

And as he uttered the spell to send the boy to sleep, Gandalf felt his heart grow heavier. The logic that Frodo and Aragorn had described to him on the way through the mines was sound, and somehow that made things worse. Perhaps sentiment _had_ wrongfully overtaken sense. The wizard himself had insisted on the importance of trusting to love and loyalty over strength of arms, and physically, the young ones were capable, though Pippin's mental capacity could be argued. Gandalf worried especially for Pippin. He was still so young, so foolish...

And then there was the matter of Dís' pregnancy. An unforeseen and quite probably tragic danger that was added to either scenario. Gandalf knew that Bilbo did not know – the hobbit would never have allowed his wife to leave Rivendell if he had known. He would have stayed with her before he let that happen. And Dís was in significant danger – yet they could not turn back to help.

Frodo had not wanted to speak of the pregnancy at first, and Gandalf sensed there was something else that he was holding back, too. There seemed to be a secret on the tip of Frodo's tongue, a tale he longed to tell, but would not. Gandalf could not help but remember Bilbo telling him of Frodo's reaction to his parents' deaths, when the dwarf who murdered them scared him into silence.

Yes, Gandalf understood them. He wished that he did not, that he could trap them in Lothlorien under the protection of Galadriel and Celeborn, and preserve their innocence a little longer, but Bróin's eyes and the growing mutters of Pippin's nightmares reminded him that their innocence was already almost shattered. No matter how he wished to protect them, or how fiercely their parents wished to rein them back, the brave young folk had sealed their own fates.

This was the fellowship as it was meant to be, and he knew it in his heart.

With a long sigh, Gandalf pulled out his pipe, and hid his tear-filled eyes with a small spark and a puff of dark smoke.

 **So, I hope that you enjoyed that chapter :D Sorry again about the wait, it hopefully won't be so bad this time.**

 **NOTE: The verse on Soren's tomb was an altered version of the BEAUTIFUL song 'Lament for Thorin' by Eurielle, which I highly recommend.**

 **Please let me know what you think if you have the fancy – I love hearing your theories and opinions and critiques, they're really helpful and make me very happy :D**

 **Thanks for reading, have a great day :D**


	23. Chapter 23: Starlight and Shadows

**Hey there :D Thanks as always to my lovely reviewers, you give me so much joy I genuinely can't explain it! I hope you enjoy this chapter, though I will warn my less angst-inclined readers that the beginning of this chapter is a wee bit graphic in places.**

 **As ever, sorry for any mistakes, and I really hope that you enjoy.**

 **Read, enjoy, review :D**

 **Chapter Twenty-Three # Starlight and Shadows #**

 _It was cold. So, so cold._

 _The ice was burning his feet with every step, but Frodo had to keep going. The red-hot metal was clenched in his hand, and he had to get it to the abyss, to the icy bottom of the black well. If he did not…_

 _He saw an iron hook dig into the flesh of Nelly's shoulder, and drag her backwards into the arms of a waiting orc. He saw a club smash into Merry's skull and knock him to the ground, and then saw an orc throw his cousin's limp body over its shoulder and cart him away._

 _Frodo saw Pippin leap across a fissure, leap and miss his landing, and break at the bottom of the chasm. Frodo screamed as goblins ripped Pippin's body away. And then he was in a forest, and watching arrow after arrow shoot into Boromir's chest._

 _Falling to his knees, Frodo saw Gandalf falling down, down, down, into an abyss of fire and darkness. He saw a warg's jaw close around Aragorn's neck, and drag him off a cliff. He saw Gimli disappear beneath a crush of armour-clad orcs, and saw only blood escape._

 _Frodo curled his fingers into the ice and dragged himself forward. He had to keep going. He saw Legolas fall from a strange battlement in a foreign place, saw him land on a spear. Had to keep going._

 _He saw Sam fall down a black staircase, and lie motionless on the rocks below with his eyes and neck wide open. He saw Thorin struck down before the gates of Erebor, an axe ripping open his ribs. He could see Dís, screaming on a blood-soaked bed, her back arching as masked dwarves stabbed black knives into her flesh._

 _Dragging himself to his feet, Frodo tried to run, slipping on the ice. The end of the tunnel was getting closer, but his running was more of a stagger and he was slowing down._

 _Staggering like Bróin, leg hanging open, powerless to stop the orc swing the axe that severed his head, and left it lying on the floor beside Bofin's foot. And the rest of Bofin's corpse._

 _Sobbing, Frodo collapsed into razor sharp snow. He saw Vinca fighting four orcs at once, fighting and losing – and losing her head._

 _Pain shot up his arms._

 _Pearl, lashed to a tree, gagged, half-naked and crying as her mother's lifeless body was tossed into a nearby ditch._

 _Frodo wrenched himself back onto his feet._

 _Frerin was hiding beneath Dwalin's motionless body, watching black orc boots walk closer and closer towards him, and then his blood was pooling out to join his father's._

 _Frodo forced himself to the very edge of the abyss._

 _Bilbo was being strangled, strangled by long, white fingers._

 _Frodo opened his palm._

 _Fíli was lying in Kíli's arms, an arrow in his throat and his eyes unseeing on the bank of a lake outside a mountain that Frodo knew – Frodo was too late, too late, he had failed and –_

A hand seized his shoulder, and Frodo's eyes snapped open to a pair of bright blue eyes.

"Fíli!" he cried, hands grasping at his bedroll as he struggled to sit up. "Fíli!"

"Hush now," said a voice – not Fíli's voice – and Frodo blinked until Gandalf's face swam into view. "It's alright, Frodo my lad."

"Wha's goin' on?" slurred Nelly, an impressive sense of urgency in her voice.

"It is time to leave," said Gandalf evenly, without moving his eyes from Frodo's. "Frodo and I are going outside to make the final decision on the passageway. Master Samwise, would you be so kind as to pack up Frodo's things for him?"

"Of, of course Master Gandalf," stammered poor old Sam, rubbing sleep from his eyes even as he gazed worriedly at Frodo.

For his own part, Frodo barely had time to blink before Gandalf was bringing him gently to his feet and steering him out of the door. Then, the wizard crouched so that he was eye-level with Frodo, his hand resting warmly on the hobbit's shoulder. Despite himself, Frodo felt just a little safer.

"Are you alright, my lad?" asked Gandalf quietly. "That looked like some dream you are having."

For a moment, Frodo drew in a deep breath to deny it, or make up some standard nightmare – Mahal knew he had enough of them – but he was too tired. Too afraid that his dreams might _mean_ something – and exhausted of carrying it all on his own. Before he could find the words to say, however, Gandalf's brows lowered slightly.

"There is something you keeping to yourself – you called out to Fíli before the gates, yet he was not the only one in danger. Tell me what troubles you, Frodo."

Frodo lowered his eyes, but found that looking up at Gandalf made him feel safer. So, he looked back up into the wizard's eyes. "I had a dream, at the house of Tom Bombadil. But it did not feel like a dream – it felt, well… real. It scared me, Gandalf. I saw things, things I have never seen before, places I did not know – and I, I saw my family…" Frodo took a deep breath. "I saw my family in great danger. At different times, in different places, but some – I saw some of them dying. I was walking into a mountain of fire, but I was not myself, I was Bilbo." Gandalf's eyes were growing darker, more dangerous, and something about it heartened Frodo. "It scared me, but I told myself that it was just a dream, and that I could stop it from becoming anything more."

"But something changed your mind," stated Gandalf, his hand tightening on Frodo's shoulder. "Didn't it?"

Frodo nodded. "I saw the gates of Moria. I'd never even seen a picture before, not from that angle, in that way – and I saw Fíli dead there. With an arrow, an arrow in his throat."

"You are sure of this?" Gandalf frowned, shaking Frodo slightly. "What else did you see?"

In a trembling voice, Frodo rattled off the awful visions. He tried not to embellish them with the new nightmares – like the one that had just wreaked havoc on his mind – but it was difficult. Had he seen Bróin _die_ at Tom Bombadil's? He thought he had just been running – and Pippin, he had not seen Pippin fall before, had he?

With every word he spoke, Gandalf's eyes grew darker and darker, and his grip on Frodo grew tighter. "You should have told me this sooner," he said, and though there was no condemnation in his voice, Frodo's heart seized.

"You do not think it's true?" he begged, feeling his knees melt beneath him. "Gandalf-"

"I think you should have told me sooner," Gandalf said firmly, "but 'true' is a relative term. Always remember, Frodo, that even the wise cannot truly see the future – only glimpses and predictions that may or may not come true. With that said, it certainly sounds as though you experienced a vision of some sort – not normal for a hobbit, I am sure, but Tom Bombadil is a strange man, and his house a strange place. It is possible that some power there granted you this foresight. After all – you saw Boromir, before you knew that he was at Rivendell, and you saw Legolas far from home. Yes, I believe it was a vision, my lad. But remember, the future is not like the past. It is malleable, and much of it rests in your hands."

This did not make Frodo feel any better. "My family – my whole family…"

"Are out of your hands," insisted the wizard, though he glanced at the door with a small smile. "For the most part. But we shall leave a message in Lorien – the Lady will ensure that it reaches them – to warn them of what may be to come. For Fíli, we must hope that your call was enough."

Frodo hung his head, reining in his breathing as tears prickled his eyes. "I should have said something before."

"Yes. Yes you should have." Gandalf sighed. "But there are many things we both ought to have done differently. By going yourself, you may well have changed parts of your vision already. For example – you say you saw Pearl bound while her father was killed?" Frodo winced, and nodded. "Yet now, Paladin is travelling toward Erebor, after your company, and Pearl is soon to set out for the Shire with her mother, to warn folk there of what may be to come."

A soft knocking made Frodo jump half a foot into the air, and he whirled around to see Aragorn poking his head out of the door.

"Are we ready to leave?"

"I do think so," said Gandalf, standing up without a trace of care. Aragorn nodded and ducked back to tell the others, and Frodo grasped Gandalf's sleeve.

"The others, should I tell them?"

Gandalf pursed his lips. "I think that you must. But not here, not in so dark a place."

Nodding slightly, Frodo dragged his composure back into place just in time for Sam to wander up and hand him his pack.

"You alright, Frodo?" he asked, eyeing Frodo suspiciously.

Frodo gave a wan smile. "I'm alright, Sam. Nothing but a bad dream."

"If you're sure." Sam shrugged, and shifted his own pack on his shoulders, gazing at the three passageways with a furrowed brow. "I'll be glad when we're out of here. It's too dark. Not natural. I reckon the place's been alone too long."

"You might be right about that," Frodo sighed.

"Which path are we taking?" Merry asked, striding over with Pippin behind him. Frodo's mood sank lower. His youngest cousin was standing very close to Merry, and casting guilty, apprehensive looks at both Gandalf and his sister. He looked like a pup that had been kicked too many times.

"I am going this way," declared Gandalf, striding to the right-hand passage. "I do not like the smell of the middle way, and it is about time we start travelling upwards again. If in doubt, Meriadoc, always follow your nose."

And so on they went. Walking, trudging on through dark passages and dark stairways and dark bridges. All that he had on him – that was what Frodo would give for a light. He felt that the shadows were watching him, watching and waiting.

 _Waiting for what?_

His mind drifted to Bilbo, waiting outside the gates of Moria. To the stricken, furious face that his uncle had worn – to the damage that Frodo had done. Frodo would give all the light in the world to see Bilbo again. To say he was sorry for the pain he had caused, to explain why he had not had a choice. To have Bilbo forgive him, smile at him again. To make sure that Fili had not met the end he had seen.

Frodo shuddered.

"Take care now," Gandalf called over his shoulder. "We are about to enter the mines themselves, the path is narrow and cracked."

The state of the path mattered little to Frodo. He hated the place either way. His leaden feet simply continued to carry him onwards, step by step into the ever-present darkness. Only raw determination to protect his family was driving him on now. That and the grief for the scene at the gates. That was what drove him. Stubbornness and grief.

 _Just like a true son of Durin,_ he thought.

A cold draft tousled his hair, and Frodo turned his jacket collar up to shelter his neck. He could not be bothered to fish out the scarf at the bottom of his pack – he had not thought that he would need it after Caradhras, and it would be more trouble than it was worth to fetch it now. A curling growl emerged from his stomach, and Frodo groaned. He had missed breakfast.

Then he gasped, and halted with a foot in the air. He could feel the blood draining from his face, and he squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. Their food – almost all of their food – was in the bags carried by Kanna.

Outside.

In their own packs, he doubted they had rations enough to see out the week.

Biting back a curse, Frodo forced his feet onwards. He could skip breakfast. It would not kill him. _Not one_ _breakfast._ He tried to remember what foodstuffs he had in his own pack, but it did not make him feel much better. Two apples, a handful of nuts –

Light?

Out of the corner of his eye, Frodo could see something, glittering off of the side of the path, down in the depths of the dark mines. He kept his eyes on his own feet, afraid that if he looked directly at the light it would vanish. When he blinked, and it remained, he peered over the edge of the path, and his mouth slipped open.

Silver rivers of starlight were running through the rock, with tributaries the breadth of a strand of hair, and pools as wide and long as his hand. They sparkled in the dim light of Gandalf's staff, dancing in delight at relief from the darkness, and Frodo knew exactly what those rivers were, even as their beauty stole his breath.

 _"What if Uncle Bilbo doesn't come back?"_

 _"He will."_

 _"But, but what if he doesn't?"_

 _"He will."_

 _"But what if…" Frodo trailed off as Thorin stuffed his fingers into his eyes, something that Kíli said meant he was 'praying for strength.' Why he would need strength now, Frodo was not sure. But he had never been left alone without Auntie Dís or Kíli or Fili before, and he hadn't been left alone with_ Thorin _overnight, ever. He wished that he had just slept with his cousins and risked the flu that was making its way through Dale, and through the hobbits of Erebor. "What if he doesn't, though?"_

 _With a soft sigh, Thorin crouched down, and placed his hands on Frodo's shoulders. They were so big that his fingers met across Frodo's back. For a moment, Frodo worried that he was in trouble – adults did not like too many what-ifs – but Thorin's voice was very gentle. "Uncle Bilbo will always come back for you, Frodo. Surely you know that?"_

 _What? Of_ course _Frodo knew that – it was not the point! Frodo huffed and stomped his foot, even as tears sprang to his eyes. "You don't understand! Mama and Papa would always come back until the bad dwarf made them not able to! What if someone makes Uncle Bilbo not able to?"_

 _A light dawned in Thorin's eyes, as if things had suddenly started making sense. "That is highly unlikely to happen. Firstly, your Uncle has a brilliant guard. Secondly, Dale is safe, enough. And thirdly, and most importantly, I gave him a secret gift."_

 _Frodo narrowed his eyes. "What sort of gift?"_

 _"A very special shirt," said Thorin, "that can stop even the sharpest of elven blades. It is harder than dragon scales-"_

 _"Still-on ones?"_

 _"What?"_

 _"Harder than still-on dragon scales, and not, not ones like Smaug's that had fallen off?"_

 _Thorin smiled, but it was not the eye-twinkling sort of smile he would give them when they made him laugh, nor the cheeky smirk they got when they narrowly escaped a good telling off. Either of those smiles would have quite upset Frodo, but this one did not._

 _Thorin was smiling sadly, the sort of smile Frodo had seen thrown at Fíli or Kíli when they said something about the bad things that had happened. Frodo had never been on the receiving end of that smile before._

 _"As hard as the still-on scales of the greatest dragon on earth," promised Thorin. "As long as Uncle Bilbo is wearing his shirt – and I know for a fact that he is – nothing can harm him."_

 _For a moment, that made Frodo feel better. Then, he gasped. "But what about his face? The shirt won't cover his face or his legs or help if he drowns or-"_

 _Even as tears fought their way out through Frodo's sentences, Thorin wrapped his arms around him, lifting Frodo clean off of the ground. For a moment, Frodo was startled, and he hiccuped, giving Thorin a chance to get in before the tears did._

 _"If anything happens to your Uncle Bilbo, we will look after you. But nothing will, not tonight. I am sure of it. Come."_

 _Frodo sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve, but he did not bother pointing out that it was useless to tell him to 'come' because if Thorin was carrying him he had no choice anyway. Instead, he just tucked his arms around Thorin's neck, and let himself be taken into the king's own rooms._

 _Frodo had not been in there before, but Sam said it was just like the other rooms in the royal suite. And Frodo had to agree. It was most like Fili's, he supposed, very regal and kingly-looking with gems everywhere and not even one flower, but not too posh that it looked bad, like Miss Lobelia's house._

 _Thorin walked right over to his bedside table, and sat on the bed, pulling open the drawer. He did not seem to mind Frodo clinging to him like a spider, so Frodo supposed that he did not have to let go. He rubbed at his eyes, while Thorin pulled a small box out of the drawer._

 _It was more hobbitish than Frodo would have expected – it was made of wood, and looked very simple. Nondescript – that was the word Kíli taught him yesterday. It did not really look like it fit in here, in this majestic room. Then Thorin opened the box, and Frodo gave a little gasp._

 _Nestled inside was a shard of captured starlight – it was too pretty to be anything else._

 _Transfixed, Frodo watched Thorin pick up the twinkling light, resting it on his palm so that Frodo could see. It was a necklace – and a little less sparkly now that Thorin's lap was not shining right on it. But it was no less beautiful._

 _It looked like a little shield of silver, complete with pretty dwarven patterns and runes so small they must have been engraved by mice, and it caught the light in such a way that it almost seemed to shine on its own. Even the chain that held it sparkled._

 _"My mother gave me this on my tenth birthday," murmured Thorin. "This is mithril, Frodo. It is strong, and beautiful, and the most precious of all metals and gems to our people. It grants great beauty, and weighs very little, but it is very strong. You could bite down on this tiny shield, or any link of that chain, with the jaw of a wolf and it would not scratch. This is what is protecting your uncle. This one can protect you."_

 _Frodo looked up in surprise. "Me?"_

 _"Yes, you. If you want it." Thorin fixed Frodo with his sharp, blue eyes. "It can remind you that I will always protect our family, and I will always protect you."_

 _As if a spell had been cast, the frightened crawling in Frodo's belly changed to calm, and an odd feeling took its place. He was safe. He had not felt safe without Uncle Bilbo since before they left the Shire. He smiled, and squeezed Thorin as tightly as his little arms would allow._

 _"Thank you!" And then, for the first time, he added, "Uncle Thorin!"_

Frodo's fingers closed around the pendant as he stared down at the unmined mithril. He had worn the shield around his neck ever since that day, though he usually kept it hidden beneath his shirts. No need to draw attention to the most valuable thing he owned, and he hardly wore it for its beauty. Even now, as the familiar metal pressed into his palm, Frodo felt just a fraction safer. And sadder.

Uncle Thorin could not protect him now. He just prayed that he could protect Uncle Bilbo, and that someone would protect the king himself. Behind him, he could hear the others murmuring in awe, and his hand tightened around the shield until it almost hurt.

He was not alone, and not unprotected. He released the necklace, felt it fall softly against his chest, and let himself breathe into the beauty of Moria.

"Well, that's an eye opener and no mistake," Sam murmured to him, eyes as round as the moon, and Frodo smiled.

"It is indeed, Sam."

All too soon, they left the mithril mine behind them and returned to the gloom and the dark, but its light left an imprint in Frodo's mind. A fragile aura of hope was settling around him, and stubbornly weathering every step that he took. They walked on, and on and on and on, until Frodo had lost track of the hours. Or was it the days? It did not seem to matter here. But still, hope clung to him, and he clung back. Just as he had clung to Thorin's neck all those years ago.

The thought made him smile.

The present made itself known with a cold smack to his face – there was another draft here, and though Gandalf's light did not always touch the sides of the passageways, Frodo had the distinct impression that he had just walked out into a wide, open space. Gandalf strode forward and then paused, allowing the others to spill out around him.

"Finally," breathed the wizard, before speaking loud enough for the whole party to hear. "We have reached the habitable layers. I will now risk a little more light."

Like a wave delivering water to the desert, light poured out in all directions, and again Frodo's breath was stolen from him. They stood in a great hall, larger even than the great hall of Erebor, held up by beautiful stone columns larger than anything Frodo could imagine.

His hungry eyes drew in just a fraction before the light faded away again, and Gandalf sighed.

"It is so beautiful, yet so dark," murmured Boromir. "How could folk live here?"

The wizard sighed again. "It wasn't always like this, Master Boromir. Once mirrors and windows drew in light from the sun, and at night the halls were lit by torches and chandeliers more beautiful than you could imagine. You have seen similar sights yourself, in Erebor. Yet anything of beauty, light or value has been taken by orcs. Melted down, most probably."

Frodo felt a lump growing in his throat. This was not _truly_ his heritage, but he felt as though it was. He was the nephew of the King of Erebor, the heir of Durin. It was his family's homelands that had been stolen again and again, his family's kingdom that lay gutted before him.

Lifeless.

A soft hum met his ears, and he turned to see Gimli, tears glistening in his eyes. As Frodo watched, he began to sing:

 _"The world was young, the mountains green,_

 _No stain yet on the moon was seen._

 _No words were laid on stream or stone_

 _When Durin woke, and walked alone."_

With the reverence the hymn deserved, Frodo joined in softly:

 _"He named the nameless hills and dells;_

 _He drank from yet untasted wells;_

 _He stooped and looked in Mirromere,_

 _And saw a crown of stars appear,"_

He heard Sam and Merry add their voices to the dirge:

 _"As gems upon a silver thread,_

 _Above the shadows of his head."_

Pippin's voice slipped naturally into their harmony:

 _"The world was fair, the mountains tall,_

 _In elder days before the fall_

 _Of mighty kings in Nagothrond_

 _And Gondolin, who now beyond_

 _The Western Seas have passed away:_

 _The world was fair in Durin's Day."_

As Bróin and Nelly too began to sing, every voice seemed to swell to fill the emptiness around them:

 _"A king he was on carven throne_

 _In many-pillared halls of stone_

 _With golden roof and silver floor,_

 _And runes of power upon the door."_

Far above them, Frodo saw the ceiling begin to lighten just a fraction, and his heart and hope grew together.

 _"The light of sun and star and moon_

 _in shining lamps of crystal hewn_

 _undimmed by cloud or shade of night_

 _there shone forever fair and bright."_

In his mind, Frodo could see it – the kingdom as it was, as it should have been – full of life and song and laughter.

 _"There hammer on the anvil smote,_

 _There chisel clove and graver wrote;_

 _There forged was blade and bound was hilt;_

 _The delver mined, the mason built,_

 _There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,_

 _And metal wrought like fishes' mail,_

 _Buckler and corsle,t axe and sword,_

 _And shining spears were laid in hoard."_

The light above them grew a little stronger, Frodo realised with a leap of his heart that the ancient windows still let light in, that dawn had come at last!

And with it, their voices began to slow.

 _"Unwearied then were Durin's folk;_

 _Beneath the mountains music woke:_

 _The harper's harped, the minstrels sang,_

 _And at the gates the trumpets rang."_

Bróin's voice quavered, and a sadness seeped into every voice:

 _"The world is grey, the mountains old,_

 _The forge's fire is ashen cold._

 _No harp is wrung, no hammer falls,_

 _The darkness dwells in Durin's halls._

 _A shadow lies upon his tomb_

 _In Moria, in Khazad-dûm_

 _But still the sunken stars appear_

 _In dark and endless Mirromere;_

 _There lies his crown in waters deep,_

 _Till Durin wakes again from sleep."_

Their voices faded away, and the pale light of morning continued to seep in upon them. Frodo did not try to stop the tears that trailed slowly down his cheeks, and he hung his head. A silence fell around them, like the heavy silence of prayer, and for a long while no one spoke.

Enough light had bled in for Frodo to see the entire company without the aid of Gandalf's staff when the last person he had expected to speak broke the silence.

"I am sorry," said Legolas, gazing at the other end of the hall with misted eyes. "I am sorry, that this fate befell your people. The darkness here is deep, indeed."

Gimli's eyes widened, but he bowed his head in acknowledgement, and Bróin and the hobbits followed suit. After another pause, Gandalf sighed, gazing over the weary group.

"Let us rest here a while. We are making better time than I would have expected, but we cannot maintain such a pace without rest."

Barely waiting for the others, Frodo slumped down at a nearby pillar and let his bag spill onto the floor beside him. Dust billowed up in heavy clouds, displaced by the hobbit and his baggage, but Frodo did not care. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, to wake up, and to leave. Yet as he settled himself down to rest, Frodo's fingers wrapped around the shield that hung from his neck.

He breathed in, and breathed out, and closed his eyes. Fell straight into a dream.

 _It was cold. So, so cold._

 _The ice was burning his feet with every step, but Frodo had to keep going. The red-hot metal was clenched in his hand, and he had to get it to the abyss, to the icy bottom of the black well. If he did not…_

 _He saw –_

 _Thorin._

 _"This one can protect you," said the king, placing his large hands on Frodo's tiny shoulders. The fire in his palm stopped burning, and instead of a searing ring he felt a cool, metal disc, with patterns as familiar as the back of his hand._

 _He saw Nelly –_

 _Thorin wrapped his arms around him, tightly, placed his hand on the back of Frodo's head. "Hush now. It's just a dream."_

 _He saw Merry –_

 _Bilbo was telling him a story, jostling Frodo on his knees to show just how bumpy it was to ride on a pony._

 _He saw Pippin –_

 _Singing gently, Dís rocked Frodo on her hip and carried him out onto a balcony so that he could see the stars._

 _He saw Boromir –_

 _He was clinging to Kíli's back as the dwarf ran and ran, his hair flying free behind him as laughter spilled through the air._

 _He saw Gandalf –_

 _Fíli spun him around and around, and Frodo was laughing so hard that he thought his lungs might implode._

 _Thorin pressed his head against the hobbit's._

 _A cool disc of metal pressed gently into Frodo's palm._

 _"Your family loves you, Frodo."_

Later, when Frodo woke, he found that the delicate layer of hope that settled around him in the mithril mine had grown stronger. He felt hope stirring into the raw determination in his heart, and he felt it bring strength to his mind. Almost like an armour.

Almost like a shield.

 **I hope you liked that chapter! I really wanted to get it up tonight, so sorry for any mistakes. Thanks for reading, please do leave a review if you can. I would really appreciate knowing what you guys think :)**


	24. Chapter 24: Growing Pains

**Thank you to the reviewers of the last chapter! This one here is a little filler-esque, but I couldn't let Hobbit Day and the 80th ANNIVERSARY OF THE PUBLICATION OF THE HOBBIT! go unheralded! Where I am, the anniversary was yesterday (21st Sept), the our Baggins' birthday is today (22nd Sept) but interestingly enough the Bodleian Library posted about the difference in Gregorian and Shire calendars on Facebook, go check it out :D**

 **I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and as ever forgive my typos :D**

 **Read, enjoy and review :D**

 **Chapter Twenty-Four # Growing Pains #**

The pain was getting worse. For hours now, Dís had been ignoring it, stubbornly, desperately, but the sensation searing across her lower abdomen was growing stronger with every loping stride of the wolf. Riding Sitka was significantly less bumpy than riding a pony, but she felt every step, every jostle.

She wrapped an arm around herself, pushed inwards as if to squash the pain, but it flared in protest and she let out a groan. Sitka faltered, twisting his head to try and gaze at her with those doleful eyes of his, though he could not turn his face far enough.

"I am alright, my friend," she lied quietly, spurring him onwards. She could not lag behind the group. Could not show any weakness. All their plans and prayers had been crushed in a rockfall, and if she was fated to worsen things, at least she should keep it to herself.

A shot of fear rang through her, ricocheting off every bone and lodging in her heart as her stomach seized again.

Another baby. She was going to lose another baby.

Beneath the stabbing pains she felt a weak flutter, too fragile to be called a kick, and she swallowed a sob.

The pain grew worse.

"Dís, are you alright?"

She jumped – she had not even noticed Vinca riding up beside her. The girl's eyes were slightly narrowed, but her brows were furrowed in what was obviously concern.

"As a matter of fact," Dís said, a tremble belying her calm voice, "I think I need to relieve myself. Be a good lass and tell Thorin to slow the group, will you? No need to stop, I'll surely catch up."

Vinca hesitated, looking far from convinced, but she nodded and urged her pony towards the front of the group. Dís peeled off into the trees and out of earshot, and stumbled off of Sitka's back before he had even stopped. The wolf whined, twisting around to nuzzle her neck, even as her knees buckled and she sank to the ground. A moan of pain escaped her lips, and Sitka threw back his head.

"No!" she gasped, before he could howl. "No, be quiet Sitka, good boy. Shh now, shh."

Whining, Sitka tossed his head and nudged her, but as she covered her own mouth with her hand he laid down, and crossed his paws over his nose.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths now.

With fumbling hands, she unbuckled her belt, relieving a little of the pain, and tugged her leggings down, feeling frantically for the blood that she knew would –

Not be there?

Before she could so much as frown in confusion, another searing, stabbing pain coursed through her, and she groaned through clenched teeth. It may not just be the baby, this time – Dís was not young, her own life could hang in the balance –

And just like that, it was over.

For a long moment, she did not move. On her knees, legs out at odd angles behind her, breathing deep, shaking breaths.

And then she bowed her head, and let out a small sob of relief.

Her lie to Vinca had been a lie only to herself. She was alright. Her baby was still alive. In the emptiness left by the pain she felt the soft flutter of the child inside her. Her baby was still alive – still kicking.

She pressed a clammy hand over her mouth as Sitka whined, and for a moment, that was all that she could do. Then she took a deep breath, and took stock of where she was. On the ground in the woodland by the Misty Mountains, alone and vulnerable, with her trousers around her ankles and her own excrement behind her. How had it come to this?

 _No time,_ she thought wearily. _No time to ponder that._

Her hands shook as she cleaned herself, redressed and slung her leg over Sitka's back. With a satisfied huff, he turned back the way they had come. Dís wished with all her heart that she could tell Bilbo without crushing him. He was hardly in a place to hear such news, but it was no longer simply the health of her baby at stake. It was her own health, and by extension the health of the company. But telling Bilbo, breaking off another piece of his battered heart…

Tears were masking her vision, and she was drowning. Drowning in relief, and in fear. Relief for her baby, fear for her baby, relief for herself, fear for her sons, for her little ones –

She did not notice that Sitka was growling until he stopped.

Dís blinked, twice, and her blood ran cold. A lone wolf stood in their way, larger than Sitka and poised to attack. She grabbed her sword, the sweat on her fingers making it slip, making her fumble and then –

" _Ai_!" barked a voice, and a flash of silver shot through the air, scraping the nose of the strange wolf, and embedding in the tree behind it. "Out of here, go!"

Whimpering and shaking its snout, the wolf turned and fled into the trees. Gasping, Dís turned to look at Vinca, who was speeding over on her little pony to retrieve her throwing knife.

"Are you alright?" the girl asked quickly, studying Dís even as she examined their surroundings.

A weary smile struggled to Dís' cheeks. "I am, now. My mind was not with me, and I am more grateful than ever that you were. Thank you, uzbadnâtha."

Pausing, Vinca smiled sadly and inclined her head. "The others are moving, but slowly, unless they have paused already."

"Then let us join them," sighed Dís, urging Sitka forward. Now that the strange wolf was gone, he was prancing about like a stud dog, his nose in their air and his gait ridiculously jaunty. It drew the small smile back to Dís, and helped it linger a while.

"I cannot but feel guilty," said Vinca after a moment, glancing over her shoulder not at the woods, but in the direction the company had come from. "I feel I should have gone with Bofin."

Dís sighed, and gazed at girl who had been wrapped around her little finger for two decades. "You made your choice, my dear, and it was for good reason. Do not doubt it now. Bofin has Nori and Ori and both the elves with him, and remember, he would take no others."

Vinca nodded slowly, but she was biting a little too harshly on her lip. "He must be so afraid."

By now, they had reached what semblance of a road the others were taking, yet Vinca lingered back towards the end of the line, her voice low. Dís pursed her lips and nodded, her gut twisting in knots at the very thought of poor Bofin.

"Indeed, but he is also on the way to the safest place for him. If Lord Elrond does not help him, I will eat my sword." It had not sat well with her, either, watching Bofin born away by elves on fast horses, with only Nori and Ori as family beside him, but the boy had refused to let Bofur return with him.

"You've, you've gotta find Bro," he had sobbed, his eyes struggling to focus between the pain and the elven draughts. "Uncle, please, help him, help him!"

No matter how much Bofur begged, no matter how many tears the miner shed, Bofin would not yield, and so now Bofur rode beside Bilbo with hunched shoulders and a hung head.

Vinca sighed, glancing over her shoulder again. "Aye, but he'll still be afraid."

"We are all afraid," Dís murmured, before she even knew that she had spoken aloud. When Vinca looked at her, Dís shook her head. "He is out of our care, and on his way to care much greater. Bofin will survive this, I am sure of it."

Sighing once more, Vinca turned her gaze on the woodland around them. It was sparse, yet felt rather dark and heavy – much like a lesser version of Mirkwood. "We are the first to venture here for a long time," she said, her gaze lowering to the ground. "But I do not know that we are alone."

The hairs on the back of Dís' neck stood up, and she looked around. "Orcs? More wolves?"

The young hobbit shook her head slowly. "I'm not sure. There are no signs of either, it is just a feeling, but we should take care. It is a feeling akin to being watched."

Dís shuddered lightly. Vinca had a rather uncanny knack for picking up on signs before she knew what they were, and the thought of being watched did not sit well with Dís. Especially not after…

She drew in a deep breath, brought back her concentration, and looked more closely at the young hobbit. Her fingers were flexing, releasing and then holding the reins in a pulsating, almost hypnotic movement. One that Dís could interpret.

"What is on your mind?"

Once again, Vinca sighed. "You should tell Bilbo."

"Tell Bilbo what?" Dís asked, steel sliding immediately into her voice as her heart picked up speed and her stomach – her baby – fluttered.

"Whatever is troubling you. It is something you are keeping secret, and I do not know what or why, but you ought to tell someone, at least." Sincerity rang in her voice, despite the hesitance in her eyes. "You are – not yourself, Dís. You're distracted. I am afraid for you."

"I am sorry for scaring you," said Dís, massaging the back of her neck to avoid holding her stomach. "But you so not need to fear." Vinca stared at her, until finally Dís raised an eyebrow. "You may be nearly grown, little flower, but you are not the adult here yet."

A sad, sheepish smile secured its place on her cheeks, and Vinca nodded, returning her gaze to the forest. She was incredibly attentive, Vinca, and her intuition was second to none. Dís was not entirely convinced that Vinca did not know exactly what Dís hid – and she was not convinced that Vinca was wrong.

Really, she could not believe that Frodo had not asked Pervinca to join him. They were much alike, and though he would not want to take any young cousins with him, Dís could not fathom why he would allow Pippin to accompany him, and yet exclude the strongest tracker and most observant hobbit among them.

Then, an odd thought took siege of her stomach, with an odd grip of anger, and disbelief.

"You knew, didn't you?"

Vinca glanced at her, face unreadable. "Knew what?"

"That Frodo and your brother and sister were going to take that damned thing themselves. They asked you to join them, didn't they?"

For a long moment, Vinca paused, and then she inclined her head with a sigh. "Yes. They asked me to join them."

Dís raised her eyebrows higher. "And you did not think to tell us?"

"I did not think they were wrong. I did not think they were going about things the right _way_ , but I did not think them wrong. I told them that I would not sneak off in the night, but nor would I stop them. And I kept my word." Vinca kept her eyes on the road ahead, her hands now tight around the reins. Dís' eyes narrowed.

"There is more than that," she insisted, her anger growing hotter, and creeping into her voice. "You are keeping something from me, Pervinca."

"I wished – I wish – to return to Erebor. If there is to be a war, a siege, I should be there." There was a faint blush creeping up Vinca's neck to her cheeks, an odd and uncommon tell, and it brushed away Dís' confusion with one gentle stroke.

Vinca may not be a soldier, nor the first one Dís would think of in the context of a siege, but the brave young warrior climbing the guard's ranks like a ladder most certainly would be.

"Ari. So, you are courting then." It was not a question, but it was not a condemnation, either.

Vinca dropped her gaze to her fingers. "In, in a manner of speaking, I suppose that you might say that."

Dís understood the girl's trepidation. For an unattached guard in training, courting was strictly forbidden, under threat of expulsion from the guard. To admit that she and Ari were involved would get the young dwarf kicked from the guard, and dishonoured as a coward, or a rake, while Vinca herself would likely be seen as a whore, or a profiteer.

Most captains were willing to turn a blind eye if the soldier performed his duties and the lover stayed out of the way, but to admit formally to a relationship before Ari's graduation would mean trouble even the king would struggle to mend. That Vinca would say so much showed a huge amount of trust in Dís, and it melted most of the anger she felt towards the young girl.

"He is a brave fellow, and a good-hearted one," she said, locking eyes with Vinca. "Yet you should have told us about the plot."

Vinca shook her head a little, though her eyes were full of a sorrow as deep as any Dís had seen. "I am not sorry that I did not. If you were in our place, your love would back up your logic."

Despite herself, Dís understood the truth in Vinca's words, and she felt the last remnants of anger ebb away. "I understand, mizimith, but if we are to survive these times, we must trust to each other, and wherever possible refrain from keeping secrets." A flash of panic shot through Vinca's eyes as she glanced towards her parents, but that was the only sign of her fear. Dís smiled. "Yet I think that there will be no danger about keeping what you have told me between only us."

"Thank you," breathed Vinca, lowering her eyes. "I do not think they would understand, why I held my tongue." After a long moment, she raised her gaze to Dís', and there were the ghosts of tears in her eyes. "And yourself?"

Wondering when the shy little child she had doted on became the grave young woman before her, Dís closed her eyes on her own tears. "You know."

"I think so." Vinca's voice was small, with a hesitance never shown towards Dís. "Is it… did you?"

As if in answer, the baby moved, still worryingly weaker than both Fíli and Kíli had been by this stage. The words stuck in her throat, but Dís coughed. "I have not lost it yet."

Vinca's mouth twitched into a little smile, which died the end of the moment. "And have you told…"

"I will tell him tonight." Dís promised, more than half to herself. She did not want to, by the Valar she did not want to, but Vinca was right. To fail to tell, to keep this to herself – it would put everyone in danger.

Without speaking, the women urged their steeds to go faster, to join with the rest of the group more completely. Few others were talking. Though they were, for the most part, unharmed, they were wearied, bloodied, and grief-stricken. And defeated.

They had failed. Each and every one of them knew that they had – there was no chance of catching the conspiracy again. To do so would just bring more danger down upon their heads. Now, they would have to help in any way that they could.

And that would mean splitting up as soon as they reached the old dwarven road that ran beside the Misty Mountains. Found on no map save those guarded by Durin's Folk, the road stretched from the Gap of Rohan right to the north most peak of the mountain range, and two hour's march from Durin's gate. It could not be another hour away, now.

Thorin was to take the High Pass, and pray that the mountains had not been fully repopulated after the Battle of Five Armies. With him would go Dwalin, Ehren, and the hobbits, save Bilbo, in the hope that they would reach Erebor quickly, and in one piece. Bilbo, Kíli, Fíli, Bragi, Bofur and Dís were to make for the Gap of Rohan. With any luck, they would slip past Saruman unnoticed – or at worst draw his attention to them, rather than the fellowship – and warn Rohan and the surrounding kingdoms of the war that was surely to come. Solidify their allegiances. Gather support.

There was only one blessing in this hell – her sons would be together. Given that Kíli's destination would be Erebor, though it be by a round-about route, Thorin allowed Fíli to travel with him. Though he made no fuss, Dís knew that it had not been an easy decision for her brother to make.

She had not had an easy choice, either. Choosing which path to take had been particularly difficult, but she knew, now more than ever, that she had to be guided by her body. If things went wrong, not only might she lose the baby, but she could lose her own life as well, and jeopardise the lives of others. The High Pass was the more direct route, and the faster one, but if it included such a fall as Thorin's company experienced twenty years ago, she would be in trouble. Even without it, the mountain pass was more perilous, and the weather poor, and riding over the sloping plains of Rohan would likely be easier.

They reached the road far sooner and yet far later than any of them would have liked. Dismounting, Dís strode to Vinca's side, putting her hands on either side of the girl's face as if she was still a child. "Take care, little one. Keep safe, and look after your Papa."

"Take care of yourself," Vinca said pointedly, before throwing her arms around Dís more gracefully than either of her sisters could and whispering, "And of the little one. I will see you soon."

"I do hope so," breathed Dís, finally releasing the young hobbit. "May your road rise to meet you."

"May the wind be ever at your back," replied Vinca fervently, squeezing Dís' hands just one more time, before going to say goodbye to the others.

For Dís, the worst goodbye was to her brother. Three times, she had bid him farewell at the start of an impossible task – Azanulbizar, Erebor – and now. She did not know if luck and fate would hold to keeping him safe a third time. What was more, she longed to tell him so deeply that it hurt her. She wished to confide in him about the child they would never know, the feeble life that clung to her.

It had been Thorin she told first the last two times, Thorin who knew how hard it was to grieve when your grief was shared and amplified by so many. But to tell Thorin now would only pain him, worry him, and neither would have any positive effect on him during the journey to come.

So Dís held her tongue and forced her lips into a smile, and parted from his embrace without a word about the baby. She implored him to take care, he kissed her forehead, and then he was gone.

She closed her eyes. It was such a final word. Such a final thought.

Gone.

 **So here we end it! This chapter was meant to be a two-parter but I am too tired to edit the rest tonight, and I have to be up early to work a bookstall at a Tolkien conference! I'm really excited and a little nervous, so no time for Moria tonight I'm afraid ;) That said, the next chapter should be up before too long!**

 **Thanks for reading, I hope that you enjoyed it! Please do review if you can, they really make my day :D**


	25. Chapter 25: The Falling

**Yo! Thanks to both of you who reviewed the last chapter, I really, really appreciate it! I hope that everyone enjoys this one a little more than the last :) I'm a bit prouder of it.**

 **As ever, please forgive my typos – I've stayed up an hour later than I ought've to finish this and I have work in the morning so there may be a couple in there.**

 **Please read, enjoy, and Review :D**

 **Chapter Twenty-Five # The Falling #**

Pippin wished that he could say he had never been so miserable in his life. Unfortunately, when the thought passed his mind, he was tossed over the shoulder of his memory and dragged back into a time twenty years before. To dark woods and dark dwarves, and orcs, and blood and screaming.

He still loathed Mirkwood more than he hated Moria, but it was growing close.

At least in Mirkwood, nothing had been his fault. He had not made anything worse. Even when his little fingers had dug a knife into Fíli's back (one of the worst memories of all) it had not been Pippin's fault. Here, he had only made things worse.

Why, why, _why_ had he dropped the damned stone? Curiosity, yes, but why had he not realised that it was not the time for exploring? Why could he not be smart like Merry or wise like Gandalf – or at least sensible like Frodo! Why, why, why?

Because he was a fool. A useless, little fool caught up in an adventure that was far too big for him. Nelly was right. He should never have come in the first place. What use was he? What good had he done? What good _could_ he do?

 _Well, I can hold a sword, and hold my own against an orc or two,_ he supposed, but it did not comfort him. The others could claim the same, and more than double the number of potential foes. Why had he thought he should come?

 _Because I couldn't be left behind,_ he thought miserably. _Because my heart's bigger than my head and it's landed me flat on my back in a ditch. Just like Mama always said it would._

He ached at the thought of his mother – he doubted she was taking any of this well. She would be angry and disappointed, a combination that Pippin hated. He had not wanted to make her afraid.

 _What had you expected?_ a scornful voice thought in his mind. _Nothing. Because you didn't think. Why do you never think, Pippin?_

Pippin sighed, tucking his knees up under his chin. He did not know. All he knew was that it was cold, and he was watching alone. Watching in the cold, gloomy hall, where the light seeping through the windows only made the shadows grow. Nelly had woken him, but she had not spoken. Not even when he said, "Sleep well."

The others were all asleep. Even Gandalf, though the wizard's eyes were open, and it was always hard to tell. The slow, deep breaths of his companions were the only sounds he could here, and they seemed to sing to him, drawing him back down towards sleep.

No.

He bit down on his tongue until his eyes watered, staring intently around him. He could not sleep on watch. Not now, of all times. He could not miss a thing, not even one little spider scuttling across the floor.

Not that there were any spiders. The hall was painfully, eerily, empty.

Gimli began to snore softly, and Pippin's eyelids grew very heavy. He rocked on the spot, batting sleepiness away as much as he could. He would not fall asleep.

 _Won't, won't, won't…_

The word ran through his head so many times that it became a mantra, a drum beat low and deep in his heart. _Won't, won't, won't,_ he thought, as the beat thudded, _doom, doom, doom._ His toes tapped along in time, and a little of his weariness ebbed away. _Won't, won't, won't, doom, doom, doom –_

 _Wait._

Pippin froze, his toes less than an inch from the floor, and the mantra ceased.

And the drum continued.

 _Doom, doom, doom._

He could hear it, he could _hear_ it – a thrill of horror ran through him. Someone, somewhere, was banging on a drum.

And getting closer.

Pippin's mouth felt very dry, and his heartbeat was growing faster as he scrambled to his feet, rubbing his eyes and peering into the darkness. Then, he licked his lips, and called out hoarsely; "Wake up! Wake up!"

With sharp gasps and soft cries the fellowship jerked awake, and Pippin wheeled around to stare at them as they scrambled upright.

"What is it?" barked Boromir, his hand tightening around his sword.

"The, the drums," Pippin stammered, looking from Boromir to Gandalf, who went very pale. A movement behind the wizard caught Pippin's eye – the pillar was swaying…

Pippin let out a cry of horror, staggering backwards. Crawling down the pillar towards them, streaming from the ceiling were hundreds, thousands of –

"Goblins!" cried Legolas from behind him, and Pippin turned to see that they were everywhere coming from everywhere.

How could there be so many?

"Run!" Gandalf ordered, thrusting Pippin's pack at him, and pointing to the far end of the hall with his staff.

Pippin did not need to be told twice. He darted forwards, fixing his eyes on the small doorway at the far end of the hall. If they could just get there, just get there… The others were with him, beside and around him, but there were more goblins before them, slithering down the pillars like spiders. If it came to a fight, they were doomed.

Choking on air, Pippin froze, looking over his shoulder so quickly that his neck burnt.

No –

"Pippin!" Merry yelled, seizing his collar and dragging him along with fear and confusion and anger warring in his voice.

Pippin ran, tried not to look back, but he could hardly breathe.

His _sword._

He had left behind his sword. For a moment, he had seen it glinting in the dull light, but in a heartbeat it had disappeared beneath goblin feet, and Pippin could do nothing but run. Run to a door that was getting closer, to a door that was disappearing behind a wall of goblin bodies.

At the front of the group, Legolas skidded to a halt, looking quickly at Gandalf as Pippin's heart sank even lower.

They were surrounded, and Pippin had no sword. He tried to slow his breathing, to remember what to do next, but all he could think was to wind his fingers into Merry's cloak, to stare out at death with eyes so wide that they hurt. He should not have come, he should never have thought himself capable of this. All he had done was make things worse, and now they were surrounded, and he was helpless.

Fíli was going to be so disappointed.

No one else would be surprised.

Merry stretched his arm out in front of Pippin, pushing him behind him, into the circle they were forming, and Pippin stifled a sob. He was going to die. They were surrounded, a hundred to one, and he knew that Gandalf could not save all of them. Pippin was the least useful of them all. He would, he should, be the one left for dead.

Pippin did not want to die.

"Merry," he whispered, but he did not know what he wanted to say, or hear. "Merry…"

His voice was taken from him, swallowed by the jeers and the shrieks of the goblins, and of course they jeered. They were going to win, of course they would win, and Pippin was going to die.

He shivered, a coarse orc voice from long ago ringing through his head. " _You said I could eat it, you said!"_

Was that to be Pippin's fate all along? Had it simply been delayed, and not averted? He squeezed his eyes shut and cringed away, despite the dwarven training screaming at him to find something, anything, to grab a weapon and fight for his life. He could hear Gimli and Bróin growling, hear the others readying themselves, but he could hardly breathe.

His eyes were shocked open by a sudden silence. The goblins were still there, still all around them, but they were wide eyed, twitching, and then one gave a loud squawk. Shrieking like bats disturbed from sleep, they fled, scuttling back up the pillars from which they had come. Pippin's fingers grew tighter around Merry's cloak, and his own breathing was as loud as a drum in his ears.

"What is _that?"_ whispered Nelly, and Pippin turned to look behind him, the way they came, the way Nelly was.

Fear stole the air from his lungs. The doorway they had entered the night before was glowing, glowing red as though a ravenous fire was burning behind it, drawing nearer. But in its centre was darkness, an unnatural, solid darkness, and Pippin stumbled backwards.

"Ai!" wailed Legolas, sounding more afraid than Pippin had ever heard him. "A balrog! A balrog has come!"

"Run!" Gandalf barked, grabbing Pippin's shoulder and shoving him forward, "All of you, run!"

Pippin's legs had never moved so fast as he raced for the other doorway. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he became aware that, for the first time in his life, he had overtaken his sister. The realisation tripped his heart and then his toes, and Pippin glanced over his shoulder, but Nelly was right behind him. She did not look scared. Her mouth was pressed into a straight line, her eyebrows were furrowed and determination burnt in her eyes.

Looking back the way he was going, Pippin noticed vaguely that he was at the head of the group, and a bone-shaking roar kept it that way. He had never heard such a noise – it was louder than the thing in the water, more frightening than the howl of a warg –

Finally, _finally,_ Pippin burst through the door at the end of the hall, but then he gasped and threw out his arms to stop in his tracks. In the same moment, Nelly struck him from behind with a curse, and Pippin tumbled forwards. Over the edge.

He barely had time to scream before fingernails scraped the back of his neck, and a hand tightened around his collar. He stopped falling. Started hanging.

Gasping for breath that would not come, Pippin glanced down and whimpered. His feet were dangling above an abyss so dark he could not imagine that there was any light left in the world at all. He could hear cries and yells, and the hands holding him were shaking, and his coat was slipping.

It would come off over his head, or rip, or burst and he would fall –

"Please!" he spluttered, trying to crane his neck to look up, but all he managed to do was slip. He screamed, but before he could fall the hands on his collar finally tugged, and he was dragged back up onto the path. The hands moved from his neck and locked around his chest, shaking him.

"Are you alright?" Frodo begged, holding Pippin even tighter. "Pippin?"

Before he could answer, Pippin was hoisted to his feet by Boromir.

"No time!" insisted the man, though his eyes were apologetic as he pushed Pippin onwards. "Run, don't trip, little one! Gandalf-"

"Go on!" ordered the wizard, and with a start Pippin realised that he was still at the door, while the rest of the fellowship had spilled out along the path. "I'll be right with you! Don't fall, now!"

Good advice, sound advice, but it soon grew hard to follow. The thin, stone walkways were cracked and crumbling in many places, and Pippin's heart lurched over every crack. Gandalf did indeed catch up with them, and quickly, but he looked weary. Almost as soon as he did, there was a mighty crash, and the mountain began to shake, and Pippin cried out in dismay.

"What was that?" yelped Bróin, but even as they paused, Gandalf herded them onwards, charging to the front of the group to lead them down the left fork of the splitting path.

"This way! I have sealed the door!" he yelled, but he was breathing very heavily. "But soon the enemy will break through!"

There was another loud boom, and the mountain seemed to wrench out of place. The sound of cracking brought more fear as rocks began to fall from above, and Pippin groaned.

Why had they come this way? Why, why, why…

A chunk of rock the size of a wolf crashed down onto their path barely a foot in front of Gandalf, striking straight through the stone. Without hesitation, Gandalf and Legolas jumped across, followed swiftly by Bróin and Nelly, but Pippin dug his heels. To his surprise, so did Frodo.

Stark white and trembling, Frodo grasped Pippin's wrist. "Pippin-"

"Jump!" demanded Gandalf, and Gimli leapt across the gap, his feet slipping on the edge. Legolas reached forward and seized him, pulling him up to safety, but Gimli did not seem too grateful.

 _"Not the beard!"_

Any other day, Pippin would have laughed.

Suddenly, his feet were no longer beneath him, and Pippin cried out as Boromir held him like a child.

"Hold on!" the man yelled, and Pippin scrunched his eyes closed. He felt Boromir run, felt him leave the ground – felt him land. Heard a crack –

Pippin's eyes flew open as Boromir lowered both him and Merry to the ground, but even as his cousin took Pippin's hand, the Took only had eyes for the other half of the pathway. Another section had fallen away, lengthening the gap. Aragorn grabbed Sam as if he was a child, and tossed him across the chasm with a cry of exertion. Boromir caught the hobbit with ease, and held out his arms expectantly.

In seconds, Frodo, too, had been safely thrown over, but then the stone beneath Aragorn's feet lurched. Pippin cried out, but there was no fear in the stumbling ranger's eyes. Instead, he set his jaw, took a running leap, and was steadied by Boromir as the old section fell away.

Then they were running again. Pippin's lungs were protesting now, but even as his hope lessened, his eyes set on a small bridge.

"The bridge of Khazad-dum!" panted Gandalf. "The way out lies just beyond!"

With a spur of courage, Pippin out on speed. They might make it yet…

A hideous roar and flare of heat thundered from behind, but Merry cried out in a strangled voice, "Don't look back, Pippin!"

Curiosity sufficiently dampened, Pippin kept his eyes straight ahead, until they reached the bridge, and Gandalf stood aside.

"I'll take the rear," he insisted gruffly, pushing Nelly and Bróin onto the bridge. "Swords are no use here, this is a foe beyond any of you. Go, quickly!"

The moment his foot touched the bridge, a thrill of terror shuddered through Pippin. It was wide enough only for single file, and there were no rails or curbs – nothing to stop him falling to his death if he stumbled. Every ounce of concentration that he could muster was spent on his feet, his legs. Nimble steps, focused steps, steps that would not falter or fall.

He could feel heat growing behind him, but it did not look back. Looking back could throw him off, make him stumble, he had to concentrate.

When his palms finally hit the wall of the mountain he could have sobbed with relief, and he stumbled after Merry, Nelly and Bróin, towards the upward passage, towards daylight –

"Gandalf!"

Pippin turned at Frodo's scream, and his own mouth fell open. Gandalf alone remained on the bridge, facing a monster more terrible than any Pippin could have dreamt of. He understood why Legolas had been so afraid, and for the first time, he understood what a Balrog was.

It was a creature of fire and of shadow, yet whole and fully formed, with a whip of flame held in a mutated hand. It had to be twenty feet tall, and it had reached the bridge, and its gaping jaw froze Pippin to the bone.

Gandalf did not flinch. "You cannot pass."

Aragorn and Boromir held their swords hesitantly, as if contemplating charging, and with a start Pippin noticed that the Balrog was flanked by thousands of silent orcs. His heart picked up speed.

The Balrog raised the whip, cracked it down through the air with a sound like thunder, and Frodo cried out, darting forwards. Immediately, Boromir forsook his sword, seizing the hobbit and pinning him to his chest, but Pippin did not need pinning. He could not move.

"You cannot pass!" repeated Gandalf. "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass!"

The Balrog did not answer. Pippin could not imagine words coming from that awful mouth, could not fathom that such a beast _could_ form words at all. But instead, it seemed to grow, which was infinitely worse, stretching out its shadows until it seemed to fill the hall beyond the bridge. Pippin pressed himself against the stone wall, feeling it cold and sharp on his back, but he could not tear his eyes away. He could not run. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Merry, Bróin and Nelly peering back around the corner in horror, but they too, seemed frozen.

Only Frodo fought to return to Gandalf, struggling wordlessly in Boromir's arms.

With a noise like shrieking steel, a sword of flame was raised high in the air and the Balrog lurched onto the bridge, but Gandalf roared in a voice louder than any Pippin had ever heard.

"You shall not pass!"

His staff smote down upon the bridge, and at once it spilt like butter sliced with a hot knife. The Balrog gave a hideous cry and fell into the abyss with the stone, its shadow shrinking away. Pippin breathed a sigh of relief, but even as he did so he saw a whip of fire snapped around Gandalf's legs, and dragged him down.

The wizard fell with a thud, grasping at the stone as he was dragged backwards.

Pippin's mouth hung open as he waited for Gandalf to move, to spring back up and run after them.

But he did not.

"Fly, you fools!" he cried.

And then he was gone.

" _No!"_ Frodo screamed, his voice throwing out a grief so strong that Pippin was surprised the mountain did not shake. "No, Gandalf, _Gandalf!"_

Pippin could not scream. He could not move. His eyes were fixed on the broken bridge, on the space where Gandalf should be. Gandalf was a wizard, he would come back, surely he would come back, jump up and yell at them, and hurry them out of the door.

"Pippin, come on!" sobbed Merry, grabbing Pippin's elbow and tearing him away from the wall.

Pippin's feet carried him away even as he stared over his shoulder, waiting, waiting. Merry would see, Frodo would see, it was alright, Gandalf could not die.

Could he?

Pippin caught sight of Legolas, of a face so white and grief-stricken, and he knew at once that he was wrong.

Gandalf _could_ die.

Behind him, Frodo was still screaming, still carried by Boromir, and Pippin had to look away.

Gandalf…

With a cry, he and Merry burst out into the sunlight on the slopes of the mountain, and as the air slapped Pippin's face, so did the realisation that what he had seen was real. That Gandalf had fallen.

That Gandalf, the greatest wizard in all of Middle-Earth, was dead.

Pippin began to shake, began to sob, as anguish swept through his body, knocking away denial and casting him into the throws of mourning so quickly that his legs gave out beneath him. Merry tumbled down with him, his arms wrapping tightly around Pippin's heaving chest.

Gandalf, their Gandalf, was gone.

Merry was sobbing, brokenly, but even now his hands were squeezing Pippin's arms. Even now, he wanted to comfort Pippin. Guilt flooded up Pippin's throat and choked him, but even as throat was dammed by tears, someone skidded to their knees before him, sending dust into his tear-filled eyes. Then a pair of shaking hands were pulling him up, into a sitting position, and then he saw his sister's face.

He had never, ever seen Nelly look like this before. Her face grey-tinged white, save from her eyes, which were red and swollen, and tears left their blotches on her cheeks. In her eyes was a horror that Pippin had not known his sister capable of. Her hands rested on his cheeks for a moment, and then she embraced him so tightly that he could hardly breathe.

"I'm so sorry!" she sobbed, and it was a moment before Pippin could figure out what she was speaking of. "I, I nearly killed you, Pippin, I'm so sorry, and I couldn't catch you and I nearly _killed_ you and Gandalf, Gandalf – oh, Pip, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!"

Sobbing himself, Pippin clutched at her and hid his face on her shoulder as if he was a toddler once more. He wanted to say it was alright, to apologise himself for the _stupid_ stone, but he could not speak. His throat was full of tears, and when he tried, only one word would break free. "Gandalf," he sobbed. "Gandalf…"

Because that was all that really mattered.

Gandalf.

All that mattered was that Gandalf was gone.

 **That's all we have time for today! I hope that you enjoyed it. If you have just two minutes to leave any feedback, I would really, really appreciate it. Reviews not only make my day, but help me make the story something that you guys are happy reading. If I'm focusing too much on OCs for your taste, let me know. If it's too violent, too tame, too cheesy, let me know, and I'll do my best to fix it. One of my favourite parts of Fanfiction is the interaction, so if you have a chance do leave a review :)**

 **Thank you very much, and I hope you have an awesome day :D**


	26. Chapter 26: Fear Not this Night

**Hello, all! Thanks for the lovely reviews to the last chapter, including the guest who's productivity I blocked (Sorry!) :D I'm so sorry this one took so long. It features a particular elven lady who is SUPER difficult to write, and then my computer deleted the 90% finished chapter in a tantrum it had over WiFi :( Still, we're here now, and I hope the better for it.**

 **Please forgive any typos in this chapter, it's been a long few days.**

 **This chapter is named after a song that I believe was written by Jeremy Soule, though the version I know is sung by an artist called Freya Catherine. The lyrics are, I feel, very appropriate to the chapter, so I'll pop them below for those of you who are interested :D**

 **Chapter Twenty-Six # Fear Not this Night #**

When Bofin opened his eyes he thought he was dead. For one thing, he could see the ceiling above him, crisp and clear, unlike the haze that had floated over his eyes since that monster, that _weight,_ and for another, he could not feel any pain. Not even a dull throb. Nothing.

But he blinked, and drew in a few sharp, deep breaths, and he felt his chest rise and fall. He wiggled his fingers, wiggled them over his face –

He had the strength to lift his hand over his face.

How? The last thing he remembered was fighting to keep his fading eyes open as Uncle Bofur rode away with Bilbo, of lying limp in the arms of an elf, atop a horse that was far too big for him. But therein lay the answer, and he realized it right away.

He was in Rivendell.

They had made it.

Fíli always said how good the elven medicines were, how much pain they could siphon away. Bofin had thought he was trying to make them feel better, but now he felt not even a twinge. Then, he stiffened, and it struck him like a slap to the face.

He could not feel his legs.

Vaguely he remembered the sight of stumps, bloody through grey bandages, and he winced. He knew they were gone. But now that he was awake, alert, the realization was sinking in. This was forever.

Tentatively, Bofin propped himself up on his shoulders. He half expected a swoop of nausea or pain when he moved, but nothing came. He glanced down, and _then_ his stomach turned. There was an odd drop in the blankets, right where his legs should have been. He took a deep breath, and pulled off the covers.

Crisp, white bandages were bound around the bottom of his thighs, just above where his knees had been once. And that was it. His legs ended there, before his knees. Grief washed over him, quick and strong, yet fluid, like a sudden storm. And like a fading flash flood, it faded away astonishingly quickly.

He was alive. He was not in any pain. And he was a dwarf – he could live without his legs. The idea was a lot less scary now, tucked away in bed, than if had been when he was crushed by a whole damn mountain.

He shuddered.

"Thank you, Mahal," he whispered fervently, even as his fingertips slid towards his legs. His stumps. He took a deep breath. Waved his fingers through the nothing where his legs should have been.

It was odd to think that his knees and his calves and his feet were miles away, still pinned beneath the mountain. At first, the thought made him sick, but it also gave him an odd desire to laugh. It formed an image of his feet poking out the other side, still in his carefully laced up boots.

But his parents would not find it funny. Sorrow smashed into him at the thought of how they would react – he knew that they would be crushed. They did not like scars on their babies. They told Bróin that all the time.

Bróin.

Bofin flopped back against the pillow and brushed his hair from his eyes.

Bróin _had_ to have got away, he had to. Bofin himself had been dragged yards back before he got crushed, Bróin could not have been caught in the rockpile himself. No, he would be alive, and tramping through Moria and probably loving every second of it. But the dangers, the road he was taking…

Bofin squeezed his eyes shut, as tightly as he could. He had failed. Again. He had never been a good brother to Bróin, and he knew it.

When his brother had been born, Bofin had been too busy playing with his own toys, reading his own books with his own parents to share their attention with another. He had been curious about the baby, but grew tired of him quickly. He was not much fun to play with. Bofin had friends. He did not need a little brother who dribbled when he sucked his thumb and cried when Bofin would not let him crawl through the toy soldier's army lines.

Then Bróin began to toddle, and to snatch and steal Bofin's toys, if the older boy would not let him play, and he _never_ liked to let Bróin play, because Bróin broke things. So Bróin broke things on purpose, and Bofin hit him, and Bróin hit back harder.

And Amad fell pregnant with twins, and Bofin could not think of anything worse. More babies to take his toys, to break his dolls, and spill sticky foods over his books. The twins were born, loud and squalling as Bróin was, and though he thought they were a little bit cute, Bofin lost all interest in the girls within a week.

But then Orla got sick.

She got very sick.

Bofin still remembered the odd grey of her face, the stark white of her little lips. He remembered how still she lay, how she did not cry. He remembered his father crying in her place, rubbing her little hand and begging her to get better. He remembered his mother moaning, her eyes as dark as night-shadows. He remembered Bróin clambering around the kitchen to feed himself, too small to understand what was happening. He remembered the horror he felt when he looked at Orla and realized that this tiny creature, this little part of his family who had not even had the chance to break his toys, could be leaving them forever.

Bofin kept vigil by the twins' cribs, looking away from Orla only to check that Ola was not about to follow her to death's door, but Orla got sicker and sicker, until her little arm was hardly as wide as Bofin's two fingers. For the first time in his life, Bofin had been struck by true terror and by real sadness, and he cried himself to sleep and begged the Valar to save his baby sister. He promised that he would look after her, look after both the girls, and teach them and play with them and let them rip all the pages out of all of his books if they had to, if that would allow them live.

Something worked. Either prayer or medicine or Orla's own little will, or maybe a combination of the three. But she regained colour, grew stronger. And Bofin kept his word, and found out that babies were boring, but toddlers could be fun to play with if you loosened up the reins a little.

He asked Bróin to join them, with a wide smile and an outstretched hand.

And Bróin had stuck out his tongue and turned away, scampering out of the back window to chase imaginary goblins on his own.

Bofin had done what he could to become a great brother since Orla's recovery. He was the twins' quiet guardian, their confidant and comforter, their playmate and their teacher. Between it all, he figured out how to have alone time, how to keep some toys for himself. How to make sure some books stayed safe. And he was much the same with Bodin when he was born, and Bolin and Bowin and Olin, though he felt that he knew barely his youngest sister yet. She was just a baby, after all. Just coming into herself. She would probably never remember her oldest brother having legs.

He shuddered again.

Better than never remembering her oldest brother at all.

For all the effort he had made with the little ones, though, he had never been able to be a big brother to Bróin. He had tried, Mahal knew he had tried, but by the time he realised that his siblings were not forever, Bróin had learnt that Bofin did not want him. Sometimes they played, and wrestled and sang together, and Bofin would feel a surge of the warmth he longed for, but then Bróin would shrug, and walk away with a grin on his face. Arm in arm with Nelly, more often than not.

But Bofin made sure Bróin knew he was there, and left the door open. The fact that they were not as close as Fíli and Kíli, say, had not really bothered him for years. He just accepted that they would never be close, and accepted that it was alright. They loved each other. Chatted now and then, played once in a while. But they knew they loved each other.

Until Bróin went on a suicide mission.

If anything happened to him, if Bróin _died_ – Bofin had not felt that fear so strongly since Orla was a baby. It wrapped around his heart, squeezed and suffocated him, and he knew that he had to do something. Anything. He had failed Bróin once, probably a hundred times. He could not fail him again.

But Bróin had clearly not expected him - he had looked so confused at Moria's gates. So angry.

Until the monster took Bofin, and then his brother had screamed.

"Urgh…" Bofin threw his arm over his eyes.

 _Why do you always have to be so difficult, Bro?_

Even as he thought it, he knew the answer. It was because Bróin had learnt to rely on himself, to make his own fun, because Bofin had been a selfish lump of a toddler. Still he did not exactly feel guilty – he regretted what he had done, but he had only been a child, after all. He had known no better.

Now, though…

If he had not gone after Bróin now, he would never have forgiven himself. Even though Bróin was stronger and braver than he was. Even though Bróin could look after himself.

A soft gasp drew his arm away from his face, and he looked up in time to hear a smash and a splash and a scream.

"Bofin!"

Tears in his eyes and steaming tea on his trousers, Bodin raced through the door and launched himself onto the bed, wrapping his arms around Bofin with a wail.

"Hey, hey, hey," Bofin murmured automatically, shuffling into a sitting position and holding his brother tightly. "It's alright, Bodin, it's alright. I'm here."

"Y-y-you looked so dead and you wouldn't stop sleeping and they wouldn't let me _stay_ and Fin, Fin I was so scared, and they wouldn't let me stay, and your legs, your _legs_!"

"Shh." Bofin kissed his brother's forehead, unable to stop from smiling as he wiped Bodin's tears away. Bodin was crying, yes, but he was here, and he was safe, and in that moment nothing more mattered. "It's alright. I'm not even hurting."

Bodin paused, almost mid sob. He sniffed, and narrowed his eyes, pushing more tears out onto his cheeks. "Really?"

Bofin nodded, marvelling silently at how easy it was to speak. He had expected to be more croaky. "Elves are good healers. It's alright, Bodin. I've got you now. And look, you've got tea all over your trousers! That must burn." He patted the steaming fabric, trying to bat the liquid away before it scorched Bodin's legs, but his brother squirmed and wiggled so that he was snuggled closer.

"Doesn't hurt!" he squeaked, holding Bofin tighter and cutting off his air supply.

"Omph – but that does," Bofin groaned. "Ease up a little, Bo, that's a boy. Why wouldn't they let you see me?"

"Coz, coz I'd upset you, or infect you or, or, I don't know they just didn't! I thought you were gonna die, Bofin!"

Bofin swallowed, resting his forehead on his brother's. "Can I tell you a secret? So did I. But I didn't, Bo, I'm here and I'm alright. And I'll be just fine without legs. Denahi manages, doesn't he?"

Bodin frowned, his whole brow furrowing in disbelief. "But he only lost one, and he already had four!"

Bofin nodded. "I know. But if Uncle Bifur can be just fine with an axe in his head, I'm sure I'll be just fine."

"And you're not even sad?" asked Bodin, leaning back and crossing his arms.

Bofin paused. "Yes. I am sad. But not too sad. I'm happy to be alive, Bo. Happy to be safe again."

Bodin's lower lip trembled and he flopped back against his brother's chest. "I want us to _all_ be safe."

"Me too," Bofin murmured, wrapping his arms tightly around Bodin. "Me too."

So that was why he failed. He had to leave Bróin to more capable hands, and he had to look after the ones who needed him.

"Bofin?"

"Mm?"

"I love you," Bodin mumbled, twisting his little hands painfully into Bofin's hair. "I'm glad you're home now."

 _But I'm not,_ thought Bofin, Erebor entering his mind with a pang of pain. But he smiled, and ruffled Bodin's hair. Time to be a big brother.

"Me too. So, who's waiting for that tea, then?"

* * *

Aragorn had never known grief like it. It was an overwhelming thing, a wave of pain and shock that crashed over him, pouring down his throat into his lungs, again and again and again, without letting him come up to breathe. It was all he could do to stop tears, to stop sobbing, to stay strong,

Now, more than ever, others needed him to be strong.

They had spilled out onto the mountain, fallen where they stood. One by one, like toy soldiers knocked over by a petulant child, their sobs joining the startling birdsong, and their tears making damp the dry earth. Overhead, the sun was shining, glorious, scornful, daring to show its face when their greatest hope, and Aragorn's greatest friend, had been stolen by fire and darkness.

He loathed himself for running. Loathed Anduril, that it had not tasted the blood of even one orc in Moria. It had simply hung useless in his hand, severing only the air, watching as Gandalf fell. Yet he had no choice – Gandalf said fly, and they had learnt at the gate the dear cost of lingering to help fight great monsters. The quest had to take priority.

It will not happen again, Bróin had said. And he was right.

Knees trembling, Aragorn fought with them, ordered them not to buckle. If Glorfindel had been with them, he would have known what to do – he should have been with them, he was part of the original fellowship, he should have been there. Why could it not have been Glorfindel who danced through the doorway with them, and not poor Bróin? Glorfindel would have made it, he would have known how to destroy the Balrog –

Or would he?

Aragorn stumbled as he sheathed his sword. His shoulders sagged. For all his love and admiration for the lord of Rivendell, Aragorn no longer saw him through the wonder-blind eyes of a child. The Balrog had almost bettered the great Lord once, and it was a fight he spoke of with dark eyes and a hushed voice.

Once, only once, Aragorn had enthused that they should fight a Balrog together one day, and Glorfindel's face had grown pale at once.

"No, child," he had said. "A Balrog is a foe beyond us both, and I paid dearly for my last victory. I pray that you will never see such a devil, let alone face it in a fight. Even the Istari would struggle against such a foe."

He was right. Glorfindel was always right.

"Come," Aragorn called, his throat croaking in protest. His body wanted him to cry, not to speak, but he swallowed the tears and cleared his throat. "Come now, we cannot linger. We can grieve when we are safe."

Boromir's head snapped up and he opened his mouth as if to argue, but then he sagged, and nodded glumly, reaching out for Frodo. He was the only hobbit still on his feet, but he was swaying, back and forth like a willow branch in a slow breeze. He flinched at Boromir's touch, and turned wounded eyes on Aragorn. They seemed to bore into his very soul, begging why, how, what do we do?

Aragorn straightened, held out his hand, and offered what little a smile he could scrape together.

"Come," he said again, and the hobbit stumbled towards him. He squeezed Frodo's shoulder, and noticed that the hobbit was clutching the end of a silver chain so tightly his fingers had lost all colour. Strange. He was sure that the ring's chain had been gold.

But curiosity did not have the strength to live long. Slowly, the others clambered to their feet, some clutching each other, and others standing alone. But they gathered together, and Aragorn was about to start them to Lorien, when Gimli spoke.

"Before we go, there is something I must see," he said, his voice gruff and bitter with grief. Beneath it, there was a subtle vulnerability that carried Aragorn back to their first meeting – weary and afraid, and running for their lives. "If this journey is to end in death, I would look in the Mirromere ere its end."

All eyes flickered to Aragorn and Frodo, though whom they were asking for permission, Aragorn was not sure. He glanced up the Dimril Dale – he knew it was not far, though he had not made the short trek himself before. The sun was beginning to sink down through the sky, but noon was not long since passed. And, even as another wave of grief crashed down upon it, his heart knew that this was the heritage of more than half the company now. He had no place to refuse.

Gimli led the way, trudging up the path with a cloud of silence around him, and the others trailed behind. Even Legolas and Boromir followed, though Aragorn knew they could be no more curious than him. Curiosity was not a thing that survived such a grief.

The last of the trees parted, and then Aragorn's breath was stolen from his burning lungs. Before him, an arrowhead of brilliant blue, shone the Mirromere. Never had he seen such beauty in so vast a body of water – it sparkled so brightly that it seemed to give off its own light. All that could compare were the ponds of Rivendell, and with a pang he was reminded of Ael o Alassë. The same sense of sorrowful memory hummed around Mirromere, and the deep blue reminded him of Gandalf's eyes. Of holding a million memories, a light that seemed sure to last forever.

His feet drew him nearer, and it seemed that he was not the only one to feel so. The entire fellowship flanked out along the bank, and as one they peered down. Aragorn gasped sharply.

Reflected in the water was a crown of what were, unmistakably, the stars above them. He looked up, but the sky was blue and clear, save for a few white clouds. There was not a star in sight. But when he looked back, the stars twinkled up at him, and a tiny shiver of hope shot into his heart. This was what Durin had seen, one of the most poetic legends of Middle-Earth, come to life before his eyes.

The stars, hidden as they were by the scornful sun, were still alight.

Hope, as smothered as it was by Gandalf's death, was struggling on.

"Ir-rûzud tanallikhi, id-nûlukh tarazzidi," whispered Bróin, his voice breaking.

Gimli let out a strangled laugh, but nodded, wrapping his arm over Bróin's. "The sun is still shining, the moon glows on."

Aragorn took a deep breath of the cool air, and the flutter of hope in his heart grew a little stronger.

"I am glad," Legolas said in a tight voice, "that your people's legacy here has not been utterly swallowed by the darkness. That some places remain unmarred."

"It is not unmarred," murmured Frodo, tears chasing each other down his cheeks. "This is where Frerin died."

"Frerin?" cried Boromir. "The child from Rivendell, with the-"

"No!" Frodo winced, and Aragorn shivered lightly himself at the thought of Dwalin's tiny son. "No – his namesake. Thorin and Dís' brother. Not that he was much older."

"No older than Bodin and Pippin," added Bróin mournfully.

Legolas looked horrified, and Aragorn remembered with a start how few times Legolas had left Mirkwood before, and how rarely there was talk of other races' perils among those of the Woodland Realm. Sometimes, isolationism made him angry. Now, it simply made heavier his grief.

Boromir made an odd noise of disgust, and shook his head. "Evil times there must be when those so young are sent to battle. The soldiers of Gondor grow younger with every passing year. Soon we will not be able to afford to turn away any boy over eleven summers, yet it hurts my heart to see it so. Curse the orcs for fouling this place, and curse Mordor for forcing our hand now."

They turned, and left Mirromere behind them, pausing only to bow at the tower of stone that marked where Durin had stood.

They walked on. In the days that followed, Aragorn remembered little of their journey, save the immense fear of attack, or leading the company wrong. Every step, every hour seemed to linger into the next, and time passed in a wink that lasted a lifetime. Years of training and experience drove his feet, scripted his calls of encouragement and direction to the others, but true sharpness of mind did not return to him until the water of Nimrodel lapped at his ankles.

It shook just enough of his shock and weariness from his mind, just enough to check the sky. He sighed, his hand automatically going to his sword's hilt. Already, red streaks were soaking the clouds, and darkness was rolling in from the east.

"We must hurry," he said, ushering Sam through the water. "Night is almost upon us, we must reach the trees ere it falls. Come, Merry, Pippin."

They sped into a run, and hit the trees as the twilight stars appeared. Darkness rolled in quicker beneath the trees, and the hairs on the back of Aragorn's neck stood up. Somehow, he did not think that the sweet waters of Nimrodel and the whispered threat of the witch of the woods would keep orcs from Lothlórien on this night. He looked up – shelter might be found in the trees. It had saved him before, saved Gimli and Pippin too.

But as he opened his mouth to say so, a figure emerged from between the trees.

"Haldir," he cried in relief, rushing forward even as the others leapt back.

"Welcome," said the elf, putting a hand over his heart and bowing his head. "We have been wondering if your party should pass through our lands. Which one of you is Bilbo Baggins?"

Shock struck Aragorn in the face so hard that for a moment he did not understand what was being said. Then, he realised that word had reached Lothlórien from Rivendell. That they were expecting Bilbo. And Gandalf.

The hobbits shuffled behind him, the same awkward pain that Aragorn was feeling reflected in their eyes. Finally, Frodo stepped forward.

"I am Frodo Baggins, nephew of Bilbo. I am here in his place, with his burden."

Haldir looked startled, and stared at Aragorn.

"The story is long, and full of grief," Aragorn murmured. "How much do you know of our errand?"

"Enough to know not to speak of such maters outside the safety of the kingdom's walls," Haldir said sharply, and he stared intently at the group. "Yet it was my Lord and Lady's will that your company be given leave to pass." His gaze rested rather suspiciously on Gimli. "You are lucky, Master Dwarf, that the lady had knowledge that Durin's Folk would travel among this Fellowship. We have not brought dwarves into Caras Galadhon since the dark days."

"What about me?" demanded Bróin, stepping forward with an anger even stronger than Gimli's.

Haldir's eyes softened, and he bowed his head. "The Galadhrim do not forsake children of any race."

Bróin opened his mouth, but Nelly laid a hand on his arm and he shut it again. He peered down at himself, as if noticing for the first time how young he appeared, as if realising that it was obvious even to those of other races how old he truly was. He nodded, and gave a small grunt of thanks.

A ladder of silver rope spooled down from the tree behind Haldir, and the elf stood aside, gesturing to it. "After you, son of Arathorn."

He would have rather wait until he knew that the others were safe, but nevertheless Aragorn took the ladder and climbed as quickly as he was able to. A pair of strange, silent elves greeted him at the top, and though he recognised neither of them, he thought they bore a rather strong resemblance to Haldir. He had met the guard on his first, and so far only, trip into the land of the Galadhrim, though he had no wish to dwell on the memories of that visit now. It would bring no comfort.

Now, he stood upon a small platform, wide and rail-less, spread around the tree and sheltered by a thin roof. It was sparse, no more than a guard-post, but he was grateful for the shelter. For a way to hide from the orcs.

One by one, the company rose, though Sam and Pippin paled at the height.

"Trees are all right and good for playing in," Sam whispered to the youngest hobbit. "But not for sleeping in, like a bird in a tree. What if we fall off the perch?"

"Don't worry Sam." Aragorn smiled wearily. "We will not let you fall."

When he himself ascended, Haldir introduced the strangers as his brothers, who spoke very little of the Common Tongue. Aragorn, Legolas and Frodo shared a few niceties in Sindarin, but no one was in the mood for idle talk.

"Tonight, you will rest here. Tomorrow, I will take you into the city," said Haldir. "But take care not to speak so loudly. You are not resting in safety yet."

Too tired and grief-worn for anything else, they laid down on the platform, with the hobbits huddle close to the tree. Just when he thought that his heart could not grow heavier, Aragorn saw Pippin, ever their little sleeper, staring out at the night with wide eyes, pinching his own arms when his eyelids flickered.

But half an hour after they arrived, they heard the tramp of orc feet and goblin jeers below, but Haldir bid them stay, and left them in the care of his brothers, before vanishing down the tree. Minutes later, silence stifled all noise beneath the trees. Pippin went on pinching himself, until Merry pulled his hand away.

Aragorn closed his eyes. Succumbed to sleep.

He woke to a grief that allowed him to breathe, and to weak sunlight filtering through the trees. Haldir was waking them all, and urging them to follow him down the ladder once more.

"What of the orcs?" asked Bróin, hurrying to the head of the group.

"They are destroyed," Haldir said. "None will leave this woodland. Come."

They followed the elves through a hidden path, one that could not be seen by the naked eye of man or hobbit or dwarf. Yet the elves could see it, and they led the company true. Once, Aragorn had been taken breathless by the beauty of Lothlórien, but as they entered the city this day, he could not share in the mumbled awe of the others.

It was all his strength would allow to smile softly at Sam's gasps, and Frodo's wide eyes as they were led into the very heart of the city.

"Where're we going now?" Pippin asked glumly, and Aragorn glanced at him. There were dark rings under the hobbits eyes, and he stood with sagged shoulders sand a lowered head. Before Aragorn could reply, Haldir spoke.

"To meet the Lord Celeborn, and the Lady Galadriel."

Aragorn turned and bowed, low.

More beautiful and powerful even than he remembered, the Lord and Lady came down the stairs toward them. Hand in hand, they seemed to shine like the stars themselves, and even in the depths of his grief, Aragorn was heartened by the sight.

"Welcome," said the Lady, her eyes as sharp as ice as they swept over the fellowship. "This is not the company that was intended to set forth from Rivendell."

Celeborn stared directly into Aragorn's eyes. "Tell me, where is Gandalf? I much desire to speak with him."

"Gandalf the Grey did not pass the borders of this land," whispered Galadriel, and Aragorn felt a chill run through him. "He has fallen into shadow."

Legolas was the first to find his voice. "He fell to both shadow and flame. A Balrog of Morgoth. For we took this quest into our own hands, and led him into the darkness of Moria."

Aragorn hung his head.

"I took on my uncle's task," said Frodo, a vein of strength running through his quiet voice. "We left without Gandalf, and he did not catch up until the gates. He… he led us through the mines, until…"

Silence fell as Frodo trailed off, and Aragorn felt compelled to look up. The Lady was staring at them intently, one by one, and when her eyes fell on Aragorn, he felt peace sweep over him. In an instant, his mind was filled with a familiar garden – Rivendell. He saw himself walking through the flowers, saw an elven maid run towards him, with starlight in her eyes and flowers in her hair.

 _Arwen._

Something tugged at his heart, a knowledge deep and secret that he could return to her, that he could dwell forever in his home, with the freedom to live and love without dishonour or toil. It felt as though he was being offered a choice, to leave the quest to other hands.

 _Arwen._

He closed his eyes. That future was closed to him now. Whether he lived or died, succeeded or failed, Rivendell would never again be home.

But it could be, if he just chose to return.

No. He would not choose to. This was his path, his duty. These were his friends.

He opened his eyes, and the vision slipped away, leaving only new grief and a faint trace of peace behind.

Yet Aragorn was not the only one to think of Rivendell. When the elven woman turned her eyes to Bróin, he saw himself running to his brother, making sure Bofin was alright, and ruffling the twins' hair until they shrieked in protest. He saw himself paddling in the fountains and wreaking havoc in the kitchens, and lingering there until the danger had passed.

No one would know, he was sure of it. No one would deem him a coward or disloyal, and there would be honour even in retreat.

But that was not the path he had sworn to take, and grief would not sway his oath. Hope for himself, even for his brother, would not sway his oath.

He stared back at her, fighting the urge to look away. Her gaze was piercing, threatening, seemed to strip him naked and stare from head to toe, but still he met it. She would not convince him to turn back. Not with a thousand promises. And what was more, she could stare all she wanted, stare right down into the depths of his soul, but shame would not bow his head.

He was who he was. He knew _what_ he was – where he was strong, where he was weak – he knew it all.

She could never embarrass him with his guilt, or his deepest desires, or his secrets, because they were not hers to look at. They were his, and his alone, and he did not care what she thought of them. She may be beautiful beyond belief, and powerful beyond reckoning, but his heart was no threat towards her, and therefore it was not hers to inspect. Its contents were not hers to judge.

He was weary and grief laden and closer to crying by the second, but he was Bróin, and of that he was proud.

The lady smiled.

With no warning, a voice, _her voice,_ spoke inside his head, shocking him to a standstill.

 _"_ _Your heart does you credit, Bróin, son of Bombur."_

Her eyes drifted away, towards Nelly, and Bróin blinked several times. The next thing he knew, his companions were all shuffling uncomfortably, and the lady was addressing them.

"This is the fellowship that fate has decreed it to be, and the only fellowship that will now have a chance to prevail. Yet the quest stands now on the edge of a knife. Stray but a little, and the world will fall into darkness. Within each of you there is the strength and courage to achieve your goal, and within each of you there is a weakness that may see the whole quest fail. If you do not find a way, no one will. Yet hope is not lost, not while company is true. Go now and rest, for you are weary with toil, and much sorrow."

His head swimming with her words, Bróin half stumbled his way down ladders and stairs to a large, open air chamber that looked like it had been grown from living tree roots. There the fellowship sat together, their stunned silence bleeding into mumbled words that kept their sleep at bay. No one wanted to close their eyes just yet.

They did not talk of their grief. It was too raw, too fresh, a pain that had to be endured before it could be spoken of. So instead they talked softly about days that had passed, and of the wonder of the lord and lady of the Galadhrim. But as they talked, Frodo grew quieter and quieter, until at last he spoke.

"There is something I must say."

Bróin frowned slightly as he looked at his cousin. Frodo was clutching tightly at the chain around his neck, something he only did when he was very nervous.

Seeing that he had everyone's attention, Frodo continued. "When we were in Moria there was something that I – something I told Gandalf. Something he thought you ought to hear, when we were out of the darkness."

It felt as though someone had pulled a plug at the bottom of Bróin's gut at the sound of Gandalf's name. He still could barely believe it, knew he was still reeling –

"What was it?" asked Merry, in a hoarse voice.

Frodo took a deep breath, and spoke in a slow, steady voice. "I had a dream, at the house of Tom Bombadil. A nightmare. I thought it little about it at the time, but in it I saw… places. Places I've never seen before. And at the Gates, I realised that they were _real_ places."

"A vision?" Aragorn raised his eyebrows and leant inwards, and Bróin noticed Legolas' ears twitch. "I did not know that hobbits were capable of such foresight."

Frodo shook his head. "We are not, normally. Gandalf – We thought it could be magic of Master Bombadil's, or of his house. But what I saw… you should all know it." His eyes lost a little of their focus, as if he was seeing what he spoke of right in front of him. "First, I saw a long bridge, leading deep into a mountain of fire, but then it changed. I saw a forest, where Nell – I saw orcs drive an iron hook through your shoulder, drag you backwards…"

Bróin could not help but wince at the thought, and he heard Pippin gasp. For her part, Nelly simply put a hand on his knee, and spoke in a voice as soft as her mother's. "Go on, Frodo."

"I saw Merry and Pippin thrown over orcs' shoulders and carted away like a sack of potatoes," he said, and then his eyes rested on Boromir. "I saw you shot with an arrow to the chest."

Boromir's hand went straight to his heart, and his eyes darkened. "Where? Where was I?"

"In the forest, the same forest. Those three things, they happened in the same place, more or less," Frodo replied, his brow furrowing in concentration. "But that was not all. The next thing I saw… I saw Gandalf, fall… I saw what happened, I saw it months ago." His voice broke and he looked away, taking a long, deep breath as the others stared at him in horror. "There was fire, fire and darkness and I could not understand why, but now… And the dream went on."

"Who else?" demanded Bróin, his voice catching painfully. "What else did you see?"

Frodo took another deep breath, and pulled at his chain. "Aragorn, wrestling a warg off a cliff, disappearing, Gimli crushed by an army of orcs, Legolas, falling off a battlement I still cannot name."

Aragorn's head bowed so that Bróin could not see his expression. Gimli's face was the colour of ash, but Legolas' face was impassive, unreadable, save for the fear flickering in his eyes.

"Sam," Frodo added in a sound that was almost a moan. Bróin could hear the cracks in his cousin's voice, now. "Fell, fell down hundreds of black stairs, Thorin was fighting outside the gates, our gates, but he fell, too. And Dís… Dís…"

"What about her?" asked Nelly, in a tone that told Bróin she had guessed the answer already.

Frodo's fingers clenched so tightly that his hands went white. "She was lying on a bed, screaming. Surrounded by strangers, in masks. She was covered in blood."

"That is why you said it would kill her," Gimli said hoarsely, squeezing Sam's leg shoulder so hard that the hobbit flinched.

Frodo nodded, tears finally escaping his eyes. They sank down his cheeks like rain on a windowpane, but his voice clung to its strengt. "Bróin, you were running, but your leg… it was… hanging, open, the back of your leg had been ripped away and an orc was coming."

All Bróin could do was offer Frodo a white-lipped smile. He could feel his hands trembling.

"Then I saw the gates of Moria," Frodo said, and Bróin went very still. "And I saw Fíli… With an arrow in his throat."

"There were arrows at the gates!" cried Pippin. "Frodo, you don't think he's, you don't think they?"

"I saw him get up, he got up," said Frodo quickly, before lowering his gaze. "But the orc archers didn't vanish when we did."

Pippin groaned, and threw his face into his hands. Merry's arm wound around him, but he too looked terrified.

 _No, Fíli got up,_ Bróin thought fiercely. He glanced at Boromir, who met his gaze. An understanding seemed to pass between them, though it was so quick that Bróin was sure the man had noticed nothing.

 _Fíli was alive. They had no proof otherwise._

"What else, Frodo?" pressed Aragorn gently.

Frodo closed his eyes. "Pearl, she was bound to a tree and watching Paladin – there were orcs, kicking him into a ditch, he was-" he cut off abruptly, wincing as Pippin whispered hoarsely.

"What? He was what, Frodo?"

"Hush Pip," whispered Nelly, her eyes narrowed intently. "Was there more?"

 _No, there can't be more,_ thought Bróin, but Frodo nodded. Bróin saw a small trickle of blood seep down the hobbit's hand as the chain he held cut into his skin.

"Frerin," he mourned, and Bróin flinched. "He was hiding, hiding beneath Dwalin, but Dwalin would not move and orcs were coming closer and closer – then I saw Bodin holding Bofin's sword, Bofin was bleeding and Bodin, he didn't know what to do… and then I saw Bilbo, Bilbo in a mountain of fire and the ring was in his hand, and I – I woke."

"But it's not real!" Pippin burst out. How he managed it, Bróin would never know – he could not breathe himself. The image of his little brother, still half the age of the twins, holding Bofin's sword burned onto his eyes, and Bofin… "That, that cannot be real, Frodo!"

"Gandalf, Gandalf said that it was foresight, but that the future is always changeable." Frodo turned his teary gaze to his hands. "But still, he fell…"

"Bodin," Bróin choked, his fingesr wrapping tighter around Nelly's. "Bodin, he was supposed to in Rivendell, supposed to be _safe_ , and Frerin too, they're so small… And Bofin – he, he is doomed, if he is not already dead…" Unable to stop the sob that rose up his throat, Bróin turned his face away from the others.

Nelly's arm wove around him and held him close, but her voice was stronger than ever when she spoke. "No."

The word rang around them like the toll of a great iron bell, reverberating through them with a strength that no one had foreseen. Bróin peered at her, and saw that her eyes were blazing.

"No, he is not doomed," she said firmly. "Did you not hear of what Frodo said? What _Gandalf_ said? The future is changeable, Bro, and we will change it. It's my belief that even elven foresight can show but a _possible_ course?" She looked intently at Aragorn, who nodded slowly.

"That is true," he said. "Lord Elrond often sees two conflicting futures, and ever says it would be unwise to dwell on foresight."

Nelly nodded. "Papa's not going to die with Pearl, because she's in Rivendell now, and he isn't. I doubt Bofin will be in fighting shape anytime soon, but he will be with Bofur anyway, and I can't imagine Bifur letting Bodin out of Rivendell before it's safe. Same with Frerin. Fíli – we saw him get up. And there is no sign that the dwarves you saw with Dís were not medics, _and_ Bilbo's with her now. He will look after her. As for the others – we can only afford to worry about ourselves. If we worry about the others our own feet will falter and the world can't afford that. So, we just have to keep going, and Frodo, you'll have to warn us when things become familiar."

"Moreover," said Boromir quietly, "we must take heart. Gandalf's death was not in vain – I am sure of it. He said to fly, and fly we must. This is our quest now, and together, we will see it done. Such tidings seem bleak indeed, but we can twist them to our advantage. From what little I have heard of Bombadil, it may not have been a malicious magic that triggered even these sights."

Taking a deep breath, Bróin nodded to himself. Yes, they would change it. They would change everything,

They had to.

 **And there we end for today. Hopefully the size of the chapter will make up a little for the wait. By Mahal, is Galadriel difficult to write! I hope I did her justice. I'll do my best to have the next chapter up more quickly for you!**

 **Thank you so much for reading, please don't hesitate to review if you can :D**

 **As promised, here are the lyrics to the beautiful song,** ** _Fear Not This Night:_**

 _Fear not this night  
You will not go astray  
Though shadows fall  
Still the stars find their way_

 _Awaken from a quiet sleep  
Hear the whispering of the wind  
Awaken as the silence grows  
In a solitude of the night_

 _Darkness spreads throughout the land  
And your weary eyes open silently  
Sunsets have forsaken all  
The most far off horizons_

 _Nightmares come when shadows grow  
Eyes close and heartbeats slow_

 _Fear not this night  
You will not go astray  
Though shadows fall  
Still the stars find their way_

 _And you can always be strong  
Lift your voice with the first light of dawn!_

 _Dawn's just a heartbeat away  
Hope's just a sunrise away_

 _Distant sounds of melodies  
Calling through the night to your heart  
Auroras, mists, and echoes dance  
In the solitude of our life_

 _Pleadings heard in arias  
Gently grieving in captive misery  
Darkness sings a forlorn song  
Yet our hope can still rise up_

 _Nightmares come when shadows grow  
Lift your voice, lift your hope_

 _Fear not this night  
You will not go astray  
Though shadows fall  
Still the stars find their way_

 _And though the night sky's filled with blackness  
Fear not, rise up, call out and take my hand!_

 _Fear not this night  
You will not go astray  
Though shadows fall  
(Still the stars find their way)_

 _Fear not this night  
You will not go astray  
Though shadows fall  
(Still the stars find their way)_

 _And you can always be strong  
Lift your voice with the first light of dawn_

 _Dawn's just a heartbeat away  
Hope's just a sunrise away_


	27. Chapter 27: Dance of Winds and Willows

**Yo! Thanks to those of you who reviewed the last chapter! Here's less of a wait for you :D As ever, please forgive any typos you find, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!**

 **Chapter Twenty-Seven # The Dance of Winds and Willows #**

The fire burnt brighter than usual in the black of the night, sending sparks souring into the space where stars should be. But there were no stars. Only blankets of thick, black, cloud, smothering the faraway light. Winter's chill was biting down against them, with an uncommonly sharp wind, but the fire was warm, and half a stag was turning on the spit above it. Enough to feed them.

Fili prayed that it had not been a mistake, to advocate for the flames. Though it may draw some attention they were still amongst the trees, and the fire would make a good defence should wolves or orcs attack. Moreover, after the hell of the last few days, some hot food would do them a world of good.

Especially Bragi. Fili had not been able to tempt him into more than a mouthful of bread since Moria, and he knew that the smell of roast venison would be a little harder to resist. Bragi needed to eat. He was as pale as his hair, save for the dark rings beneath his glazed eyes.

A lonely little ghost – those were the words Kíli had used when they had first spied Bragi in the marketplace as children. That was what he looked like now. A lonely, grieving ghost. If they did not get him to eat soon, the weight would begin to fall away. Hollow his cheeks. Make him look more dead than alive.

 _Soren._

Fíli knew why Bragi was not eating – he had known the death of a brother. He had felt that grief, felt the world wrenched from beneath him and pain encompass his very soul. He knew that the anguish Bragi felt would be crippling, and he knew that he would carry the weight of it for the rest of his life. For it never faded, that burden. You just grew stronger, until you could carry it with relative ease.

 _Or your brother is delivered back to your side, against all odds._

He shuddered, adjusting his cloak around his shoulders to try and disguise it as a shiver of cold. There would be no miracle reunion for Bragi and Soren. He had seen Soren die, seen Soren _dead._ He was buried. Gone. They were never going to see him again.

Fíli's own grief was still fierce enough to take his breath away. Not only had he been one of Fíli's dearest friends, but Soren had been so _young_. Younger even than Kíli – he was still five years from turning one hundred.

He would never even come of age.

Tears stung at Fili's eyes and he stared at the fire, allowing the smoke to sting him too. His head dropped, slowly, onto his hands, and he drove his elbows into his knees. It was not fair. Not fair, not fair, not _fair._

An arm wove around his back, and he looked up, a little surprised to see that it was Bragi beside him. Meeting his eyes, Bragi's mouth curled up into a weak shadow of a smile. Without words, Fíli sat up and wrapped his arm around the albino's shoulders. In moments, Kíli sank down beside them, snuggling into Fíli's side and reaching over his brother's lap to rest his hand on Bragi's arm.

They were a bundle, a bundle of grief and weariness. A bundle with just a little hope left. Instinct prompted Fili to say something, but there was not much to say. The night before last, Soren had been alive. In their bundle with them. Ehren had been there as well, and Paladin and Saradoc and Esme, but now they were all gone too. Gone to risk the mountains, to risk the High Pass. And Bofin was gone, and Frodo and Pippin and their little ones…

Gone.

Tears blocking his throat, Fili coughed, and lowered his head onto his knees.

It was not fair.

It was Bilbo who took charge of the cooking, Bilbo who placed strips of hot meat into bowls and pressed them into their cold hands. But it was only when even Bragi and the equally lifeless Bofur had emptied their bowls that the silence was broken. By Dís.

"There is something that I must confess," she said quietly, and at her tone Fili's lungs clenched. He stared at her, the sorrow shining in tears that clung to her lashes, the arm that wove so tightly around her stomach. He shot a worried glance at Kíli, received one in turn, and then together they looked back to their mother.

Bilbo frowned, his head tilting slightly to the side. "Oh? What is it?"

Dís looked away from him, pursing her lips for a moment before she spoke again. "I – I have held my tongue until now because I thought it best. You must understand – there is so much to fear and so much to do, and I could not add another burden to you, to any of you. Not when it's so likely to end… to end in…" Her voice broke and her gaze fluttered down, and Fíli's heart skipped a beat. Sitka nuzzled at her neck, and she sighed, running her fingers through his fur. "I am afraid, though, that it is now at a stage where it will end, and bring danger down upon you all when it does, and that I…"

"Amad, what are you talking about?" asked Kíli desperately, looking from Bilbo to their mother and back again, but Bilbo was as still as stone. His mouth had fallen open slightly, and horror was growing in his eyes with every second that passed.

Fíli detangled himself from Kíli and Bragi and leant forward – this was not some small secret. Something was very, very wrong.

"I am also afraid," Dís whispered, without looking at Kíli, "that Frodo… that it may have been a factor in his taking the ring."

"What?" cried Bilbo, his voice hoarse. His fingers were clenching and unclenching, and Fíli noticed Bofur put a hand on the hobbit's shoulder.

"He knew," mourned Dís. "He guessed, he asked, I had to tell him. He guessed back at Bag End, he noticed – I made him swear not to speak of it, but he has been worried ever since, and he… Well."

"Amad," Fíli said, the pressure far too intense for him to hold his tongue. "What is it? Tell us!"

She flinched as if he had screamed at her, and closed her eyes. That scared him more than anything – he had never, _ever_ seen his mother look so vulnerable, so afraid. She always hid such things from him, no matter how old he got.

"I am with child."

Fíli felt as though his frozen limbs had melted far too quickly. All the strength seemed to have flowed away, and he slumped where he was sitting. He was too stunned to even figure out what he felt.

Bilbo, on the other hand, stared at her, with a face of shock and fear and fury. "You're – Why are you _here_?" Before she could speak, he sprang to his feet, tugging at his hair. "Why aren't you in Rivendell, why on _earth_ did you come with us? By the Valar, Dís, what were you thinking?"

"Frodo," she choked, but from the pain in her face Fíli knew that at least half of her agreed with Bilbo. "I had to put Frodo above a life that may never be-"

"It was a long shot, finding Frodo, and you knew it!" Bilbo's voice rose to a yell, and he turned as red as his coat. "And don't you, don't you say it will never be! Don't you say that, Dís. Don't say that."

"It's true, though," she said, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Fíli could only remember one occasion where she looked so openly distressed – losing Kíli to the goblins. "Bilbo, none have survived."

Fíli glanced at his brother, but Kíli was frozen. His eyes were round as the moon, and his face as pale as Bragi's, but he was barely moving to breathe.

"No one expected Kíli to survive!" retorted Bilbo. "No one, not you or Thorin or even Daisy Took! But he did! That's it – we're turning around."

"What?" Dís gasped. Fíli found himself looking from her to Bilbo as if they were playing a game of tennis.

"No, yes, that's exactly what we're going to do," said Bilbo, nodding almost frantically. "So help me, we are going back to Rivendell!"

"We cannot go back!" she cried.

"Oh yes we can! Elrond's the best healer in Middle Earth, and there's a chance there, Dís, a chance for the baby to survive-"

"Yet we'd forsake our country and our people in the process! You knew when you married into this family, you knew that we must put the needs of our people above the needs of ourselves-"

"We're going back to Rivendell!"

"No, we are not!"

Kíli was beginning to recoil, cringing ever so slightly into Fíli's side. For his part, Fíli wished that the ground would swallow him whole. Never, in his whole life, had he seen his parents argue like this. With anguished roars and red, pained faces – he could not stand it.

"Stop it!" Kíli yelped suddenly, cutting over Bilbo's reply. "Stop it, both of you!"

They paused, each staring at Kíli, each breathing heavily.

"Bilbo, we can't shout so loud that the whole world will hear us," Kíli begged. "Let her speak. And Amad-" he turned his eyes to his mother, his hurt so obvious and deep that Fíli had to look away. "You should have told us."

"I thought I was doing what was right," she whispered brokenly.

Bilbo gave a shaky sob, placing a hand over his mouth, and Bofur stood up, wrapping an arm around the hobbit. Shaking his head, Bilbo clung to Bofur's arm, and turned to his wife. "You… you should have known better.

Dís hung her head, a tear travelling down the crook of her nose. "There was enough grief to go around with."

"Which makes any hope more important," Bilbo said fiercely. "Yes, our luck has never held, yes, perhaps it never will, but Dís – this could be the child that makes it. If we just went back to Rivendell, Elrond could help, I know it."

"He's right, Amad," said Fili quietly. "If there is a chance, we should take it."

She met his eyes with such sorrow and guilt that he almost cried himself. "I cannot, dushtel. We cannot go back. The way is ahead, you know it, I know it. So do you, Bilbo. We must press on. If anything happens to Thorin…" she closed her eyes. "We must get to Erebor. And I will not send my boys on alone."

Bragi cleared his throat, and began to speak, but his hollow voice was cut off before he could finish the word "I".

"You are one of my boys, Bragi," she replied sharply, and a flicker of a smile twitched at Bragi's lips.

"I can't go back to Rivendell," croaked Bofur. It was the first time he had spoken since parting from his nephew, and his voice sounded sore with disuse. "'s much as I want to. Bofin'd never…never talk to me again."

"Right," said Bilbo, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Right. We go on then. But Dís, the moment anything changes…"

"I will tell you," she swore. "I know the risks, and I promise to do what I can to minimise them. That is why I'm telling you now, I do not want to endanger you. If the time comes, if everything happens at once, you must leave me-"

"No," Bilbo said, going even redder, though anything else he had to say was interrupted by the others.

"Don't be a fool!" said Bofur.

"We wouldn't," Bragi promised.

"Couldn't," Fíli said, wincing at the thought. "We couldn't!"

"Not going to happen!" Kíli shook his head fiercely.

"But we will stick together," Bilbo said, breathing deeply. "We will stick together, and we will _all_ pull through. Alright? That goes for all of you. No more secrets. Even for the 'greater good.' They've got us nowhere so far."

A murmur of assent ran through them, and Dís nodded.

With a sigh, Fíli stood and walked over to his mother, putting her arm around her and pulling her close. He was a little angry with her himself for coming, for putting herself at risk, putting the child at risk – but Fíli knew that if he was in her position he would do the same thing.

"Now, that was a rather foolish thing you did, Amad, coming with us. You should've stayed safe, for your good and the babe's. But we'll look after you both now," he promised.

"We will!" nodded Kíli, scampering over to Bilbo and gently pulling him and Bofur back down to the ground, hugging Bilbo fiercely before returning to Fíli's side.

Shaking his head, Bilbo took Dís' hand, and then pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she whispered.

"But I think you've been an idiot," Bilbo said bluntly. "Especially considering how smart you normally are. Bragi, lad, pass me my pipe, would you? It's in the pack beside you."

With that, any argument was over. They all seemed to know that they would be continuing on with their plan, that they would be taking extra care and leaving all disputes in the past. Nothing to the point was said. No one brought up returning to Rivendell again.

As much as he wanted to send her there, Fíli knew that he had to go on. And he knew that his mother would follow her children any way that she could, especially when she did not believe her unborn child could survive. He could see in her eyes that she thought this baby already carried a death sentence, but Fíli was not convinced.

"Well," sighed Bragi, a ghost of a grin flickering across his wan face as he passed Bilbo his pipe. "I reckon Ehren'll have to change his definition of a barrel of frogs in a tea room."

Kíli let out a huff of laughter, and Fíli's cheeks creaked up into a smile. Even Bofur's eyes twinkled slightly. Bragi sat between Fíli and Bofur, turning their group into a little circle, unbroken. Kíli beside Fíli, beside Dís, beside Bilbo, beside Bofur, beside Bragi, beside Kíli. It was an unbroken circle, yet an incomplete one. There were so many who should be there, should be with them, now that times were so dark. But they were only six.

"A lass," Bofur said suddenly, breaking the silence with a slight smile. "It's about time you had a little lass. Another lad'll be too much trouble, if the ones you've already had are anything to go by."

"Not if she's anything like Nelly," Fíli said over Kíli's protestations.

"I am the absolute paradigm of innocence and obedience-"

"Oh, that's true." Bofur nodded. "And she'd be spoilt rotten to boot, all those aunties and uncles."

"-never done anything wrong in my life, I have _nothing_ to do with Amad's grey hair-"

"I bet she'll have the best curls any dwarf has ever seen," said Bragi, smiling faintly. "Better than Ehren's – he'll be so jealous."

"-truly, just the best child anyone could ask for-"

By now, smiles had been coaxed to the faces of both Fíli's parents. Weary, worried smiles, but smiles nonetheless.

"I'd like a little sister," Fíli commented, even as he mused to himself that his hope was growing stronger. Logically, he thought it should be the opposite – his mother was now in more danger than ever, and she was not young. The last four babies had not survived. But something deep in his soul insisted that this baby would be different. That there hope was still alive – that this baby was still alive.

"-really, it's just insulting that you would even consider me as a troublemaker-"

"Alright, Kíli, that's enough now," Bilbo murmured, though there was a slight smile on his lips.

For a moment, Kíli's mouth hovered open as he analysed how serious Bilbo was, and whether he would be more likely to cause annoyance or laughter if he continued. He seemed to think the former, and closed his mouth with a sheepish grin, resting his chin on his knees. After a moment, he spoke.

"It's going to be alright in the end, you know. If it's not alright, it's not the end. That's what Adalgrim says."

Bragi snorted, a bitter grief lacing his tone. "By that logic we're only at the beginning, or at best the start of the middle. I'm not sure I want to see it through to the end.

No one had any reply for that. Koda loped away from the wolves' share of the deer, howling softly as he placed his head in Bragi's lap. Tears shimmered in Bragi's eyes and he bowed low, burying his face in the wolf's fur.

After a long moment, Kíli began to hum. It was not a tune Fili knew, though it was familiar. Something he had heard once in passing, perhaps. The melody was soft, but hopeful, and when he heard it Bragi seemed to relax. Assured by his friend's response, Kíli began to sing.

 _"_ _And the young lass said;_

 _'_ _Come dance with me,_

 _Come dance through the winds and the willows!_

 _Come dance with me,_

 _Dance and be free,_

 _O'er the fading hills and old groves.'_

 _And the young lad said;_

 _'_ _Not yet my lass,_

 _Not yet, while the blood runs through me._

 _I can't yet lass,_

 _Though I want to, love,_

 _Dance with you til old age take us.'_

 _So the young lass replied;_

 _'_ _I'll wait for thee,_

 _I'll wait for thee in the moonlight._

 _I'll stay my feet_

 _'_ _til I can dance with thee,_

 _Be the wait an age or fortnight.'_

 _But the young lad cried;_

 _'_ _Don't wait my love!_

 _Don't wait for me to feel joy._

 _You dance my love,_

 _Dance on my love,_

 _Though I can't join until death takes me._

 _I miss you lass_

 _With every bone in me,_

 _I ache for you to fly home._

 _But dance my lass_

 _And I will laugh my love,_

 _Til I can dance through winds and willows.'_

 _And the young lass said;_

 _'_ _I'll dance for thee,_

 _I'll dance through the times that part us._

 _You laugh my love,_

 _Live long my love,_

 _We will join when old age takes thee.'_

 _So the young lad laughed,_

 _Lived long in peace,_

 _In the rolling hills and green groves._

 _And the lass danced on_

 _To their own sweet song,_

 _Til he came at last through the willows._

 _E'er now they dance_

 _Through the leas and hills,_

 _And dance and laugh together._

 _Lad and lass laugh on_

 _And hold their song,_

 _Dance for'er through the winds and the willows."_

When the song began, Bragi slowly sat up, staring at Kíli and drinking in his every word. Now, he leant into Fíli's side, nodding slightly.

After a long moment, he murmured, "Does 'dance through the willows' mean die, then?"

Kíli nodded, staring down at his hands. "Die, or be dead. It comes from Old Shire talk. No one really knows why…"

Bragi sniffed, and dragged his sleeve across his eyes. "It's… better than… less… It's a good song, Kíli."

Swallowing, Kíli nodded, and Fíli noticed that his eyes were bloodshot, and looked very heavy.

"We should get some sleep," he sighed. "I-"

"I'll take first watch," said Bilbo, looking at Dís, and she nodded slightly.

Fíli had no desire to begrudge them their privacy, so he shuffled into bed beside Kíli and Bragi, and let himself close his eyes.

A baby.

Of all the times that Amad could have fallen pregnant again, this must be one of the worst. But how far along was she, and why had he not noticed? Why had Frodo realised before Fíli had? And _did_ this child have a hope to survive?

Fear was creeping up Fíli's spine now, coiling around him like a giant serpent. It was not just the baby at stake. What if this time his mother was killed? He closed his eyes tighter. He could not think like that. Could not dwell on 'if's and 'maybe's, not when so much was at stake.

If only he could persuade her to return to Rivendell – but he knew it would be impossible. His mother was coming with him, with only a hope and a prayer as maternity care. He and Kíli would not make very good midwives – of that, he was sure.

Soren would be even worse. He did not like anything 'squishy', in his own words. Worms, guts, umbilical cords – all held an equal horror for him.

Fíli's body jerked with a silent sob. Soren would have been worse.

 _Would have._

Beside him, Kíli shuffled and squirmed, and then his arms were wrapped around Fíli and his face was pressed into his brother's chest. Fíli wove his arms around Kíli, and said the most selfish and heartfelt prayer he could think of.

 _Thank you for not taking my brother. Thank you for not taking my Kíli._

Soon, his tears were replaced by soft snores, and only Bilbo and Dís remained awake. For a long while, they watched the fire and did not speak.

"I'm sorry for shouting," Bilbo said finally.

"I'm sorry that I did not tell you," she replied, her voice breaking. "Truly, Bilbo, I did not mean to endanger _anyone,_ but, I – I could not bring myself to hurt you more than you were already hurting."

"You could have told me sooner," sighed Bilbo. His voice was void of accusation, of anger. It was simply weary, weary and tinted with grief. "Before any of this happened, before Gandalf knocked on the door."

"But it was early, and the odds were so low, even for a normal pregnancy. I wanted to wait until I was sure, until I thought the child had a chance…"

"They have a chance now." Bilbo snapped a twig and threw half into the fire. "You know they do, but you are scared."

"Of course I am scared," she whispered back, seizing his hand. "Bilbo, I do not know how much more grief we can take."

"As much as we are dealt," replied Bilbo, twisting to put his other hand on her cheek. He spoke with a passion that rivalled the fire, a fierce, searing reverence that set every word alight. "As much pain and hell as we are sent, as long as there is breath in us and family around us. If the world is cruel to take all but one of our kin among us we will endure it, and we will hold for what family we have. We will take it for our boys – for our girls – be they children or siblings or cousins. We may loathe it and curse it and writhe in anguish every night we have left, but we _will_ take it, and endure it, until the very end. Until you or I stand alone of our family. I pray we will not have to take it, but if we do, we will. We _will_ hold, until Sauron himself rips us away, too."

Her shoulders rising and falling with her quick, shallow breaths, Dís nodded. Tears fell into her lap. "Until we dance through the willows," she whispered.

Bilbo nodded, his own tears falling freely. "Until we dance through the willows."

"I love you, Bilbo. More than any poem or song or simple words of mine will ever be able to say."

"I love you, too." Bilbo gave a watery laugh. "That's what got us into this mess."

A hysterical giggle burst from her lips, but she clamped a hand over her mouth and glanced quickly at the sleepers around her. None of them stirred, and she relaxed.

"I understand why you didn't tell me," Bilbo said slowly. "I think… I think I would do the same. But please, Dís, please… promise me you won't keep something like that from me again."

"Never," she swore, almost before he finished speaking. She leant forward and kissed him, fierce and desperate and afraid all at once, and he kissed her back, and wound his fingers through her hair. Then she rested her head on his shoulder. "Tell me," she murmured. "The song Kíli sang – is it one of yours?"

"No, no," Bilbo replied. He began to draw circles in her shoulder with his thumb. "No, that's a tune as old as the hills, an old folk song from Tuckborough, I believe."

"I like it," she sighed, her eyes closing slightly. "What's it called?"

"The Dance of Winds and Willows. Go to sleep, Amrâlimê, I can watch alone. You look like you need a decent night…" He traced the circles beneath her eyes with his finger and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Sing it for me," she said. "Sing it for me, and then I will sleep."

Smiling just a little, Bilbo took a deep breath, and began the song again. It was much quieter and a little slower than Kíli's performance, but it warmed their hearts all the more for it.

And as her mother drifted off to sleep and her father sang of willow trees, an unborn child gave a kick, and began to suck her thumb.

 **I really hope you enjoyed that chapter!**

 **Just in case anyone's interested, the song is one I wrote myself, so I hope it does sound like it could be a folk song! Now, it was split into verses, but the formatting hates me, it's very late and I have work tomorrow, so I apologise if that made the song harder to follow :( Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a comment if you fancy :D**


	28. Chapter 28: Advent Announcement

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I'm sorry about the delay, but it's been with good intent.**

 **I have made the decision to start this story again.**

 **While I managed all the characters in Strangers, I started** ** _The Last, The Lost, The Least_** **at a time when my workload was difficult to juggle, and have failed in creating a story that is equally easy to follow. I understand how it is difficult to remember who is who and who is where, and reading back I know that I can do it better.**

 **This story WILL NOT BE REMOVED from the website – you will still be able to read it as often as you wish. Much of the new story will also be similar, if not identical. A lot of the stuff I have written is (I certainly hope) rather good beneath the chaotic circus of characters, so I will be reusing most of it. Most major elements of the plot will be exactly the same, and no one will be deleted – they will only be moved. I hope to give you a better understanding of the characters you need follow, and a more cohesive story.**

 **With that said, if there is anything that didn't work for you the first time around, let me know, and I will consider reworking it. There may be things that I am unwilling to change (for plot reasons, for example) or things that I'm changing anyway, but your input is highly appreciated. I will also be trying to incorporate things mentioned in previous reviews.**

 **Because much has been written, the second part of this announcement is more exciting – I will be ATTEMPTING TO DO AN ADVENT CALENDAR for you! That's right, a chapter a day up until Christmas! I will maintain this as long as I possibly can, especially to make up for essentially making you re-read the first part of the story in order to move on. With any luck, we should be up to this point by mid-january at the latest, but there will be plenty of new tit-bits for you throughout the new writing. I'm sorry about that, I truly am, and I wish that I could have done it better the first time around. But I'm brave enough and sure enough to start again, so that's what I'm going to do.**

 **The story will be called** ** _Dark Side of the Moon,_** **and will be uploaded as soon as this chapter is up. In the (hopefully short) interim, here is a sneak peak of** ** _Dark Side of the Moon –_** **hopefully it should set out some of the differences for you and give you a little something you haven't seen before.**

The night was cool, for the end of June, but Thorin did not mind. His mind was cleared by the breeze, and his heart lifted by the full moon that rose proudly above the mountain. From his private balcony he could see its pale light flood over the surrounding lands, lending New Dale and Lake-Town a quiet beauty that suited them well. Warm, orange lights twinkled in far-away windows, and on the Long Lake they sparkled with the moonlight and gave the illusion of stars dancing on the water.

It was a sight that Thorin could never tire of, a sight that would never bore him, no matter how long he stared.

This was his home. This mountain, these lands. And they had been hard won. With each of the twenty-two years that had passed, the tale of the Quest for Erebor had been woven into a living legend, but the memories of its hardships and sufferings remained as clear and sharp as cut crystal in Thorin's mind.

The battles, the injuries, the cold nights spent in soaking clothes with no shelter from incessant rain...

It had been worth every injury, for the life it had given his family.

Before the quest, he had believed his nephew, Kíli, to be dead. He had watched Fíli become a sombre prince with only a flicker of his former fire. He had watched his sister's eyes grow dull, watched her wear his fingers to the bone helping any soul she could reach, any soul that was not herself.

The Quest had returned Kíli to them. They had found him in the Shire, living as the son of Bilbo Baggins. He had no memory of his past life, save mangled dreams of blurred faces, but he was happy, and healthy, and loved.

And he brought more love and happiness into Thorin's life than the king could ever have expected. Fíli had grown into a prince greater than any Thorin had ever seen, and Dís had found love once more – with Bilbo. That had been a shock, and something rather difficult to wrap his head around, but they had been married for nigh on twenty years now, and it felt as natural to Thorin as breathing.

It was still often the largest shock for visiting dwarves. The marriage, and the dozen odd hobbits that called the mountain home. In particular, Saradoc, Esmeralda, Paladin and Eglantine stood out among the dwarven folk, for they dressed very much in hobbit fashion, and had not adopted as many dwarven behaviours as their offspring. The people of Erebor loved them for their strangeness, not to mention their charity, and their legendary determination to follow their 'brother,' Kíli, across the world to Erebor.

Thorin loved them more for their humour, and kindness, and loyalty. They had become his legal kin when Bilbo made official his adoption of Kíli and of Frodo, and family of his heart soon thereafter.

Their children, along with Frodo and Sam, had adapted rather easily to life in the Lonely Mountain. Just as Kíli's nature had been shaped by his upbringing, so had theirs, and they exhibited endearing blends of hobbit and dwarven behaviours. As such, they were often referred to as 'dwobbits,' a term that Thorin could never decide if he liked. But he loved the little halflings fiercely, especially Frodo Baggins – Bilbo's nephew, and by that token, Thorin's nephew too. Thorin always felt a silent pride when Frodo would run to him to show off a school project, or complain about Bilbo's rules, or ask his opinion on the colours of the sky.

Despite his (well hidden) favouritism, Thorin loved all of his hobbits, and would freely declare it. He loved their strange, gentle ways, and their sharp humour and wit. Not to mention their selflessness and charity, or their cooking.

The mountain felt very empty without them.

 **To read the rest, go and visit** ** _Dark Side of the Moon,_** **which should be up tonight. I really hope that you understand why I am doing this, and enjoy the story we have to come!**

 **Thank you so much for your time and support.**


	29. Chapter 29: UPDATE

**UPDATE:**

 ** _Dark Side of the Moon_** **is now up to date with this story! For anyone who's been waiting just for the new stuff, feel free to skip to Chapter Thirty Nine of** ** _Dark Side._** **I feel significantly happier with the way the sequel is working now, and for anyone who doesn't want to read through what they've read here again (fair enough) I'll list major changes below:**

· **Thorin, Dwalin, and Dwalin's family remained in Erebor, and have been among those trying to contact Bilbo to warn him about the riders**

· **The older hobbits of Erebor (Esme, Saradoc, Paladin and Ellie) stayed in the Shire along with Pearl to try and hide Orla, Ola and Bodin (Bombur's kids) in the safety of Hobbiton.**

· **Glóin set out from Erebor with Lani the wolf to try and find out why Erebor's messengers aren't coming back and where on earth Bilbo is – so far they have found evidence of orc activity in the Misty Mountains.**

· **As it stands, the fellowship is exactly the same (Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Nelly, Bróin, Gimli, Legolas, Boromir, Aragorn)**

· **Bilbo, Dís, Fíli, Kíli, Bragi, Ehren, Bofur and Nori are aiming to take the High Pass and get back to Erebor, so they're the other main group.**

· **After the battle of the mines, Bofin was taken by Bifur, Ori and the elves back to Rivendell, so it was very similar to how it went down here.**

 **I think those are about the most important things, so yeah, please feel free to hop on over to** ** _Dark Side of the Moon._** **If you have any questions after reading Chapters 39 and 40, but don't have time and/or inclination to read the rest, please just drop me a review or a PM, and I'll let you know. Thanks for your patience guys, take care!**


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